on the phone with my sister
“G’s pony died.” It’s my sister.
“Oh no. She ok?”
“Yeah. She is. But I’m not.”
“Sorry ’bout that. What happened to it?”
“Not the pony. Our dogs.”
“You know, our dogs. Yours and mine. When we were little. I was telling mom this morning about the pony and how glad I am that husband took care of it before the girls got up. ”
“Cause I would hate for them to see something like that. The trauma and all.”
“So I say to mom ‘you know, it really bothered me when Dad put the dog down that time’…..” She lowers her voice and I know exactly what she’s gonna say. “…. in front of us.”
“Poor Guts” I shake my head and picture the sweet little herniated stray my sister and I picked up when we were kids.
“Exactly! And you know what she says?” She pauses. For effect. The way she does when she’s got a doozie. “She says ‘your daddy had to shoot Pup, he was really sick’ ………..and I’m like …….HE KILLED PUP!?”
Holy crap. “He killed Pup too!”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
“Pup didn’t run away?”
“Seriously. I mean, good grief. No wonder we have issues.”
She sighs. I agree. Then we start talking about pilates and core flexibility.
Sisters are the best therapy.