Shecky, a short story from First Lies, by T.F. Torrey

It was August eleventh, ten days before my birthday, and I was working on the plotline of a suspense novel in the small but air-conditioned office room in my apartment. I had left the front door open, so that Shecky, my nine-year-old Cocker Spaniel, could come in from where she was playing with the children in the downstairs apartment every now and then to get a drink from her bowl. I trusted Shecky to stay out of the street beside the long, thin front yard; she and I had spent many an afternoon playing catch with a Frisbee in that yard, and she never chased the disk into the busy street, instead waiting by the curb for me to retrieve it and throw it to her once again.

So naturally I was somewhat surprised to hear the short squeal of brakes on the road outside.

I never heard the harsh thud of impact, but I instantly knew what had happened. I felt it within me, in my heart, an indescribable pinching sensation, followed immediately by the feeling of a sudden rush of blood. I sat, stunned, fingers frozen over the keyboard, not really wanting to believe that any of this was happening and real. I looked to Darwin, my muse, where he sat atop the monitor of my word processor. His eyes told me what had to be done. I swung my chair around to face the door of my office, planted my feet firmly on the floor in front of me, walked towards the door between my office and my kitchen.

At the door of my office I paused, my head filled with an image. Once, during one of our many 2 a.m. walks, Shecky and I came across a butterfly flopping and struggling in the stark yellow glow of a streetlamp. It was on the other side of the road, but the traffic was almost nil.

"Come on Shecky," I said, "let's see the butterfly." We crossed the deserted street to within a few feet of the dying creature, which had evidently been caught in the wind of a passing truck and dashed against the ground, for it thrashed about as if one or more of its wings were broken. As we watched its struggles, a calm, entrancing sadness befell my dog and me. I spoke again to Shecky, explaining to myself as much as to her.

"There is a creature which five hours ago frolicked in the setting sunlight. It will never again see the light of day." Not wanting to watch the agonies of the poor creature any longer, yet lacking the courage to end its misery, we turned and walked silently off into the moonlight. Once I looked back over my shoulder at the butterfly. It continued its vain struggle in the cold, indifferent light of the streetlamp. When Shecky and I passed the lamp about forty-five minutes later, the animal was dead. We passed without more than a compassionate glance, feeling uncomfortably cathartic.

Now I began to feel sad for Shecky, knowing that never again would she walk in the silver light of the moon.

I lifted my head a little, took a deep breath and walked toward the open entrance door at the other side of the kitchen. Two steps later, I stood frozen in my tracks.

Shecky stood in the door, virtually smiling at me, wagging her tail. She didn't look as though she'd been struck by anything bigger than a flyswatter.

At first I was relieved to see that she was OK, then I was shocked, thinking that one of the kids downstairs had been hit. I took a step toward Shecky and stopped again. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, when I opened my eyes again, I knew that the feeling in my heart had been correct.

A faint aura of blue light surrounded Shecky, emanated from her. I noticed that the pads of her feet didn't quite touch the floor. Her fur glowed a rich, healthy cinnamon color. Her eyes held the depth of eternity.

"Shecky," I said, and as I spoke her name she sprang, slowly and silently, across the room, landing in front of me, front paws against my upper leg, face looking up into mine. Her eyes told me an ephemeral goodbye, and I bent down and pressed my face against her head.

"Hasta luego," I whispered to her, ruffling her ears. Her fur was incredibly soft and warm. A moment later she lowered her front paws to the linoleum and turned to go. After a last loving glance back at me, she bounded out through my front door into the glorious golden sunlight, and disappeared.

I just stood where I was, reflecting. I felt strange inside, and it puzzled me. At last I figured it out. I felt happy. Happy for Shecky, and happy for the butterfly.

Suddenly a small boy, one of the children with whom Shecky played in the front yard, scrambled through my front door.

"Mister Grey!" he yelled, "Shecky's been hit by a truck! She was running after Joey!"

"Is Joey all right?"

"He's fine. Shecky pushed him out of the way. But Shecky—she's—"

"She'll be all right," I said.

"No, Mister Grey, she's laying beside the road with her side all smashed in horrible and she ain't breathing—"

I put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"She'll be just fine."