by James C. Clar
When Roxanne was seven, she held her beloved dog’s face in both hands. “You have to be brave, Barney,” she whispered.
Barney’s tail thumped twice on the kitchen floor in response.
At the vet’s, the lights were bright. Roxanne wasn’t allowed past the swinging doors. She sat in the waiting room and counted the ceiling tiles. She listened for the jingle of Barney’s collar.
When her parents reappeared, her mother’s eyes looked red.
“Where’s Barney?” Roxanne asked.
Her father knelt in front of her. “He’s in the hospital, sweetie. He needs some special care, that’s all. He’ll be home in a day or two. I promise.”
Three days later, the front door opened and Barney trotted in ahead of Roxanne’s father.
The little girl gasped. “You’re home!” She ran forward and buried her face in the dog’s fur. He felt warm. He smelled clean.
“You see,” Roxanne’s mother said as she came in from the kitchen. “Good as new!”
That night, Barney followed Roxanne to her room and curled beside her on the bed. “Did you miss me?” She asked as she fell asleep. Barney thumped his tail.
Over time, Roxanne noticed that Barney didn’t whimper the way he used to when the wind blew. His old limp seemed better too. At times, the dog watched her with an intensity she didn’t remember from before. It was as though he were calculating or processing his next move. Still, he tilted his head in that old familiar way when she whispered secrets into his ear.
“Daddy,” Roxanne commented once at dinner, “Barney seems a little different.”
“He’s the same old Barney to me, sweetheart,” her father said with a smile.
Roxanne reached down and petted her dog. She decided her parents knew best, that "sameness" was maybe something you had to choose to believe in.
Time passed. When neighbors commented on how well Barney was aging, Roxanne’s mom would laugh and say, “good genes!”
***
When Roxanne was fifty, she took her dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. Her mother no longer drove and seldom left the house.
“Your mother worries too much,” the old man said while fastening his seatbelt.
“You fainted in the garden, dad.”
“Come on, sweetie, I’m allowed at least one dramatic moment … right?”
They were still laughing when his hand clutched his chest.
By the time they got to the hospital, it was too late. A doctor with kind eyes muttered, “I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.”
Roxanne nodded. She felt very small, very alone and very steady at the same time.
Her mother was waiting at home, blankets tucked around her knees. She was looking out the front window as the car pulled into the driveway.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Roxanne crouched down beside her. “He’s in the hospital,” she replied as she gave her mother a kiss on the forehead. “They’re keeping him for observation. He’ll be home in a few days, I promise.”
Her mother exhaled as though she had been holding her breath. “I told him not to fuss with those stupid tomatoes.”
Three days later, Roxanne helped her father through the front door.
“There,” he said smiling at his wife. “Good as new!”
After dinner, as Roxanne was washing the dishes, her mother appeared in the doorway.
“He seems … calmer.”
“He’s been through a lot,” Roxanne said. "He’s just tired."
In the living room, Roxanne’s father laughed at something on the television. Barney lay at his feet. It was his old laugh, or nearly so. Mother and daughter silently chose not to notice the difference.
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his short fiction has also appeared in Bright Flash Literary Magazine, Flash Phantoms, Spank The Carp, 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean-SF, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, Flash Fiction Magazine and Freedom Fiction Journal.
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