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The White Dog
The first time I went down Acorn Drive was late one summer evening, the time when the dark has all but shrouded the day’s light. I was headed to see a girl I’d been dating for the last two weeks. Moments after turning onto the country road, a sharp curve approached. As I rounded the curve, a white hunting hound stood in the center of the road. I slammed on brakes and slowed down as I waited for the dog to move. He did, and I continued down the road. One week later, I turned onto Acorn Drive. The dog hadn’t even entered my mind until I rounded the curve and saw that he was yet again standing in the middle of the road. I hit the brakes again, feeling an adrenaline jolt, and slowed down as the dog casually moved out of the way. For the next month, I didn’t see the dog, and his existence slipped my mind. Then one late afternoon I was going to my girlfriend’s house for dinner. I came to the curve, again not even thinking about the dog. I drove around the curve and was surprised to see two people crouched down in the middle of the road. I pressed the brakes, and as I slowly passed by I saw what the people were crouched around: the white dog, dead. I felt a strange sense of loss, but I’m not sure why.