【by Talia Cutler】

I want to tell you a story, but I think you know it already. That is because this story is
about you. This story does not have any long hallways or bright lights or voices on the other end
of a closed door. You have heard that one too many times. This story does not have any shortcuts
or contractions. Those stories are too shallow.

This one is about a yellow taxicab and an even more yellow dog. You begged for that dog
for so long, asked every relative for it. You said you would name it something like Sandy or
maybe George, but you had not decided yet. You wanted to see what fit.

Someone finally gave in, I forget who, but you wore them down enough that the dog was
in a crate on your doorstep one morning. The crate was lined with newspaper, and your sweater
was bright red. You hugged it so hard we were afraid you would squish it. But you could not
possibly have hurt something you loved so much.

The dog peed all over the floor that day. And the next. And the next. That dog peed all
over the floor every day for almost a full month. Maybe it was sick or something, but no one
ever got it checked out. Someone would start to curse at it, and you would cover your ears and
close your eyes up real tight as if it would shove their words right back down their throat. Maybe
it did. You never heard.

The dog had a list of sins that you kept track of in your notebook. One. He got into the
neighbor’s garden and chewed up all of their alfalfa sprouts and zinnias. Two. He peed on the
floor again. Three. He got on the sofa, even though he was not supposed to. Four. He barked so
loud at Mrs. Doyle, the neighbor, that she almost fainted right in her front yard. Five. He peed on
the floor again. Six. He killed the mouse that lived under the porch, which would have been nice,
only we did not like how bloody it was. Seven. He peed on the floor again.

The list was just like that, documented in pencil on paper, and then hidden under your
bed so we would not find it and get mad. And before you went to sleep, you prayed for that dog.
You said one prayer for forgiveness for each sin on the list. And you started getting tired. You
had terrible dreams; I am sure you still do. The kind of dreams that make your arms and legs
tense up and make you hold your breath in your sleep.

The taxicab came on a warm and cloudy day. It was no one’s fault, really. It was not Mrs.
Doyle—she was just watering her lawn. It was not the dog—he just loved the sound of water
hitting the grass, many dogs do. It was not the taxi driver—he braked as hard as he could as
quickly as possible, I promise. Feel bad for him. He does not even have a name in this story.

The dog did not die that day. He got hurt pretty bad though, and after you screamed and it
limped back into the house, it was not the same dog. It did not bark anymore. It did not get into
the neighbor’s garden or kill any more mice. The only thing was that the peeing got even worse.
Twenty-six. He peed on the floor again. Twenty-seven. He peed on the floor again.

Twenty-eight. It was all the same. And then we told you it could not stay anymore, not when the
kitchen tiles smelled like piss and his bed kept getting soiled after every wash. You did not say
anything. The dog went back in the crate lined with newspaper, and we put it in a car to a place
someone’s uncle knew. No one knew how to say goodbye. We did not even know what name to
write on the crate. You never got around to naming him, did you?

Nothing fit right.

We ended up writing “DOG” and that was that. It is okay. It really is. You knew the
ending. Sometimes endings come out of nowhere. This is not the only story. There are other ones
I could tell. I could talk about how you saved my life, but I do not think you would believe me.
So I have the story about the dog and the notebook and the taxi. And I hope you keep writing
things down, because how else will we remember to pray?