“Terminal.”
“What?” I murmured.
“Terminal,” the vet repeated.
My breath caught in my throat while my fingers inched closer to the bug eyed, mangy dog lying on the table. His misty, glazed-over eyes attempted to focus on me, but they seemed lost in the excess space between us.
I learned of Mr. Bundren when I first moved into my apartment. He frequented our street and scratched at doors, hoping for scraps of food, but he’d never let you touch him. In order to feed Mr. Bundren, I had to place the food on the first porch step and walk back inside. I’d watch him from behind the screened front door. He’d creep towards the food, clamp it between his teeth, and run. He would never start eating until he was a safe distance away. Sometimes he’d turn around and slightly nod his head in some form of respect. He was everyone’s dog, but he didn’t belong to anyone. I wanted to catch him and brush out his matted hair, but every interaction we had was like a dance. I’d move forward just in time for him move back.
On a Saturday in October, Mr. Bundren was running across the street with someone’s sandwich sticking out of his drooling mouth. A tourist from Rhode Island didn’t see him. They didn’t know that our neighborhood was Mr. Bundren’s kingdom. They hit Mr. Bundren without stopping or looking back. He lay on the ground trying to eat what he thought would be his last turkey sandwich while my neighbors and I surrounded him. The younger neighbors cried for their dog, and the older neighbors called every vet in the area. I ended up taking him to the emergency vet. He got blood all over my car seats, but I didn’t care. Mr. Bundren was tough. It took three people to hold him down while the vet tried to fix his back hip. After a week at the vet, Mr. Bundren got to come home. I let him stay with me for a while, consciously keeping the door closed so he wouldn't run away. A month later, I tried to let him go free, but he wouldn’t leave. Maybe his gimpy leg dissuaded him from running. Maybe he was still afraid of the cars that pass by our building. That night as I sat in bed, Mr. Bundren jumped up to join me. He seemed to be saying, “This can be home.”
After that night, Mr. Bundren didn’t like to leave my side. I’d take him outside without a leash, at first hoping that he would go back to his old ways but quickly realizing that he never would. My brother told me that Mr. Bundren was my little shadow. He’d trot at my heels, almost running into me every time I stopped without warning. Since he’d lived most of his life eating people’s leftovers, it took me a long time to convince him that kibble was the way to go. His head was the perfect height to snag things off of the kitchen table, and many meals disappeared in the time it took for me to answer a phone call in the next room. I grew comfortable with Mr. Bundren. I loved the way his toenails clacked on the floor behind me at every moment, and it calmed me to hear his soft sighs when he’d lie down on top of my feet while I cooked dinner. Most of all, I liked his eyes. When I first brought him home, his eyes were empty and soulless, but with time, his eyes showed me his character. He was silly and loyal, and he looked at me with genuine love. At least, that’s how it always seemed to me. I knew he didn’t understand me, but I talked to him anyway. Maybe I talked to him because he was the only one around, or maybe it was because when I spoke his ears moved forward and his eyes grew larger as if he was really trying to hear it all. His were the first eyes I saw when I woke up, and he was who I cuddled up to when the cold wind slid under doors and windows. We were comfortable together, and if I had to live my whole life with only one other being, I would have been satisfied to have only Mr. Bundren by my side.
We lived together for five years before he stopped eating. I took him to the same vet’s office. They’d checked up on Mr. Bundren every year since the accident, and they’d gotten in the habit of calling him the miracle mutt. The vet said that he had developed cancer. This time, when Mr. Bundren looked me in the eyes, I could tell he didn’t feel so miraculous. He looked old and tired. We let Mr. Bundren go after months of failed therapy. He was tougher than I was. I couldn’t look outside anymore without thinking about my dog that was never really mine. After moping around for months my brother came to visit. He carried a large bag with him and placed it on the bed. A mangy, matted puppy poked its head out of the bag.
“Meet Mrs. Bundren,” he said, and miraculously, I smiled.
[Editor's note: This is a work of fiction.]