When I was little, our dog had ten puppies. One of every color and according to our math, two for each of us. This was Pluto’s first set of pups and she was too young. Two of them died within the first few hours.
I had an idea. Steal some holy water from the church. The stuff works like magic dust I told the others. My brother, the meanest bully in the world even drove me there. On his bicycle. It was sleeting and dark, and on any other occasion, he would have just made me do it. Maybe he wanted to make sure it was the real thing.
It was. We got it. We blessed the dogs. I wish I could tell you that they all lived, or that just one of them did. But as I said, Pluto was pretty much a pup herself. My brother never said I jinxed them because the holy water was, after all, stolen. But I thought it anyway. Don’t even think it had anything to do with us touching them. We didn’t, we sprinkled the magic from afar, just like the priest does it.
Dogs bring out the best in people. In life and in death.