2002-05-17
6:27 p.m.

His blood was on my hands. Bright red against my pale skin. I do it all the time at work, place a dog in a garbage bag. It was never my dog though. It was never my dog's blood staining my clothing, my skin. It was today. He ran out the door, relishing in his freedom. Had I know that would be the last time, maybe I could have run a little faster to catch him before he ran under the hole in the fence. Maybe I would have been able to catch him long before he was hit by a car. Maybe I would have noticed him on the road side in time to save him. I held his collar in my hands, wanting to feel the warmth of the dog that it belonged to. It wasn't there, however, he was gone. His blood stained my hands. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Max, I am so sorry.



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