Calling the Vet

Of course they were doomed, born with a curse; the whole litter mewing, cradled by the torn out seat-stuffing in a hearse on flat tires. Of course we took them; a chance to be gods and healers, our internal boggle turning like mileage to spell "Mom."

We boxed them on blankets and sweatshirts, fixed a water teat to the side within reach, administered formula feedings in a warm kitchen none of it mattered. The weak ones died before the debate on names.

She was soggy-faced, her prize pick wrapped in a cardboard coffin box like a Christmas gift. It weighed less than a Beanie Baby, its yellow eyes shut beneath stuffed animal fur for always. I dug a hole out front with a stone and tucked the box under heavy mud clumps, then smoothed it over.

I bet their mother was out hunting when we stole them; kidnappers with sympathy hemorrhaging from our heads, visions of us in stride with nature We, the dictators of soil, the taxidermists asleep under sewn sacks of stolen feathers.

The door opening on our shoebox ambulance sings a corrugated dirge. With one arm like a sickle, the other a shovel, doomed to bury everything we've touched. Of course they were.