Free Dog Medicine by Julie Barton

remember kissing her head, feeling the large bump on the crown of her skull as she looked at me as if I were an angel. I would brush her soft-as-down ears, the rusty orange fur turned rich maroon by her first birthday.
    More than once, Clay noticed our connection, and in front of me, he would torment her—bump her, push her down so that her long, spindly legs splayed out in all four directions, her claws scratching the hardwood floor in resistance. But I also remember seeing him snuggle with her on the floor in front of the television when he thought I wasn’t watching.
    When we left the house, Blarney would sometimes try to escape and come with us. If successful, she would sprint to the end of our long driveway, then chase our car for a quarter-mile down the road while we yelled out the window, “No, Blarney! Go home!” She would lope through the grass, dodging mailboxes and trees, the whites of her eyes showing, her ears blown back, her body in a full sprint.
    Once, when Blarney was two, my mom’s station wagon pulledout of the garage, idled down the driveway, heading for the grocery store. I was standing in the kitchen making a snack when I noticed the red blur of Blarney’s body galloping past the kitchen window.
    I raced to the front door. “Blarney!” I yelled. My mom turned out of the driveway and Blarney ran, full speed, toward the road. I marveled at her power, at the capacity of her lungs to gather enough oxygen to supply her pumping blood. It was a beautiful sight, an Irish setter at full speed, ears back, tongue relaxed and out. She should’ve been in a sunny, open field with wildflowers and scurrying mice. Instead she was chasing my mom’s station wagon, hoping to never be left behind, exactly as a school bus barreled past our driveway the moment she so gracefully, quickly, tried to cross.
    I stopped halfway down the driveway and watched the bus crash into her body. Her head thwacked against the bus’s grill, her sweet soft ears flailing wildly. Her body fell to the road and the bus drove over her before slowing to a stop.
    I held my hands to my mouth to feel if the screaming I heard was actually coming from my body. I began to run, full speed to the end of my driveway. The kids on the bus were clambering to the back window to gawk at my beloved dog. The driver stood up, opened the door, and walked down two of the stairs, but didn’t step onto the road. I paused at the end of my driveway, twenty feet from where Blarney’s body lay, and didn’t realize my mom had stopped her car until she came up to me and grabbed my wrists. She yelled at me to stop screaming.
    â€œBreathe, Julie,” she yelled. “Breathe!” All I could do was scream. I wanted to go to Blarney, but my mom held me back. She motioned to the bus driver to move on. When the bus pulled away, I screamed, “The bus is
leaving
! They ran over Blarney and they’re leaving! Mom! Call the police! They can’t just
leave
!”
    Mrs. Rankins, the elderly widow who lived alone across the road from us, had come outside. She never liked Blarney, wouldshoo her out of her yard with a broom. She stood at the end of her driveway, arms tightly crossed. She was small with cropped black hair, always looking out her window with a disapproving grimace.
    â€œMrs. Rankins,” my mom said, calling over to her. “Can you please take Julie while I rush Blarney to the vet?” I looked at my mom with shock.
    â€œNo, Mom! I want to go with you! I’ll hold Blarney in the back seat. You drive.” I wanted to be with Blarney if she were in pain or were to die. I needed to be with her, to comfort her. She was hurt; I was hurt. She was scared; I was scared. She could not die without my telling her that the world was good, that she’d done good, that I loved her. I could not fathom being absent from her traumatic injury or death.
    â€œJulie,” my mom said. “Go.” She