The Reason I HATED dogs

My orchestra in middle school made it to regionals. Everyone was so excited but not about the actual band part of the trip. What we were excited about was the trip to an amusement park afterwards. That morning we packed our bags and headed on a big coach bus. We drove and drove to the venue, where we played our music and got scored by the judges. I honestly can’t remember how we did at the performance. All I can remember is the amusement park and most importantly what happened once I returned home.

The amusement park was so much fun, as it would be for any middle schooler. My friends and I spent the afternoon riding on roller coasters, eating snacks and running around in the hot sun. One particular roller coaster I liked was the drop ride. It brought us to the top of a tower from which we plummeted to the ground. It gave me such a thrill. The sense of weightlessness and freedom. As the adrenaline pumped through my body I felt pure joy. The sense that life could not get better than this: spending the day with adrenaline rushes and friends. But that sense of joy would be put to rest soon after I arrived home from the packed day.

When we returned to school my best friend at the time drove me home. We spent the ride recalling the day to her father and petting her too black labs. The dogs were so cute and I had always loved them. They leaped around in the car, wagging their tails with the excitement of the drive. After we got home my friend’s dad and my dad started talking. My dad invited him to stay for a beer and dinner. As we left the car the two black labs dashed out. I didn’t pay any mind to it, I was just excited that this day would end with my best friend staying for dinner.
As we were eating dinner I saw the two black labs run away into the woods surrounding my house. At that second I got a feeling in my stomach, but unlike the drop ride from earlier that day, it was a bad feeling. My stomach dropped. I leaned over to my friend and said something about her dogs running down in the woods. She dismissed my comments saying, “It’s fine they’ll come back.”

But then I realised something worse: my cat wasn’t in the house. This cat meant so much to me. We had adopted her at a shelter by my house and she was the most adorable creature I had ever seen. She had a beautiful tabby back with a white belly. Whenever we would walk by her she would flop on her back, asking to be stroked. Whenever we packed our bags for vacation she would get all sad because she knew by the sound that we would leave soon. Whenever I returned from school she would be waiting for me at the door and itch her chest on my leg. Whenever it would snow she would try going outside but would immediately run back in horror. She was the best cat I could ever ask for. But since she was a shelter cat she had some issues. For one she didn’t have a tail. We didn’t know why, maybe she had been run over by a car or attacked by a fox. Either way it was clear she had been through some trauma in her life. And the day my best friend came over for dinner that trauma came back.

“I remember hearing her breathing, it was all messed up.”

The two black labs had been chasing her down the driveaway. By the time I got to her and scared the dogs away she was nestled under a rock. I remember hearing her breathing, it was all messed up. Her body was shaking. Her fur full of leaves and dirt, which she usually would never let happen. I picked her up and began to run towards the house. But it was too late. She was having a heart attack. I remember kneeling down, out of breath and worried as my dad came running over. Her breathing got worse and her shaking continued. And then she felt heavy. She just melted in my arms. I tugged her ear trying to wake her up. But it was too late. My friend’s dog killed my cat. She died in my arms.