This day began like any other; I made breakfast for my dad and myself and then retreating to my room to sip on my coffee and look on the internet. After an hour or two, the doorbell rang and I heard my dad say, "I'll get it - I'm coming, just a minute!" The next thing I heard was my dad swearing and calling Kita to come back - she had slipped out the front door and went sniffing around the driveway. At that point, my mom went wheeling out to the door and I got to the door and went outside and yelled for Kita to come back. Being the stubborn dog that she is, she wouldn't come back, and every time I walked closer to her, she moved away that much more. First, I yelled at her like she was going to be in big trouble; then I called out nicely and offered her a cookie. Neither worked. The next thing I knew, she was wandering out into the street and I was yelling, "No, No, No!" as loud as I could. I saw a car come reeling around the corner and didn't even slow down. By the time I got to her, the car had already hit her and kept on going. I was screaming out "No" still and when I went down to pick her up, blood was coming from her mouth and head. I picked her up and her tongue was hanging out and her eyes were open wide and glazed over.
I brought her into the house and couldn't stop crying. I knew she was dead as I held her in my arms and my dad took her from me, put her in the car and drove to the vet. A little while later, he called me from the vet and asked me if I wanted her cremated and if I wanted her ashes. Well, of course I don't want her ashes, that's ridiculous to me, and all I could do was cry. My little friend of over a year, who laid by my side every night, was gone. That fast and without any regard. The guy who hit her was probably 90 years old and blind as a bat. She's black -- it would be obvious to see her on white pavement. Whether he did or not, I'll never know and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm only glad she didn't suffer, because I think she died instantly. It would have been nice, however, for him to stop and come back and at least apologize. But if people won't do that for human beings, I guess why would they for a dog.
I laid in bed all afternoon after calling my kids and telling them what happened. I slept on and off and kept feeling like my heart was broken. Anyone with a love for animals knows what I mean and has probably been there. I wondered, how many times can a heart be broken? It breaks over so many disappointments in life that sometimes it seems it can't break anymore. But then time goes by and your heart must heal because somewhere down the line it breaks again.
I think if your heart breaks, sometimes over and over again, then you must be a compassionate person who lends themselves to be put in the position of being heartbroken. At first that sounds crazy or even ridiculous, but I don't think it is. A person with a broken heart, has a heart to be broken. Those people who don't feel this way about anything, have a hard, inpenetrable heart which lacks compassion and love. I would much rather be the former, in all ways and for all reasons.
But in the meantime, I hurt with real heartache. Will I get another dog? Yes, somewhere down the road, I most probably will. Why would I do that to myself, to endure yet another heartache one day? Because the love and devotion that comes from a dog is something that can't be explained, but only felt and experienced. And because I love to be loved and return it back again. It's the very essence of human need. And so, I must say, today I'm thankful for a heart that is broken...
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