Pet Cemetery

I used to joke it was a bad omen when there was smoke rising from the chimney of the emergency veterinary clinic. One time I said this to the wrong person, forgetting her horse had recently died, and she left the library to cry in the bathroom. I couldn’t fathom the amount of fire it must require to cremate a horse. After I switched jobs, I no longer drove past the smoking chimney of the emergency veterinary clinic in Flint, Michigan, and instead, my new commute took me down Evergreen Road, in Detroit. I soon came to refer to Evergreen as a pet cemetery, except it wasn’t where pets were laid to rest, it was where they were fucking slaughtered. On a regular basis, the road was littered with fresh pet carcasses. Cats mostly, but one October morning, while the sun was still rising, I saw a sizable, furry mass in the middle of the road. It’s voluminous coat was unmistakably golden, and my stomach knotted. “Oh … no,” I groaned. I wish I could say it looked like it was peacefully sleeping, but it didn’t, and it wasn’t, and so I won’t. This vision haunted me for the rest of my day. I seriously considered not taking Evergreen Road into work any longer, but after I clocked out, I couldn’t help driving back home the same way. I had to check if the body had been cleared from the road. I wish I could say.