Sixteen years old, driving the
big blue Volvo real fucking fast
down the hill and then WHAM!
I hit a dog. It flew
across the road in front of me
and I clocked it front on.
It tumbled down the road
doing cartwheels – it was horrible.
And then, almost more frightening,
it soldiered up and limped
angrily toward the car as if
to see that I had anything left.
I was shaking like the last of the
autumn leaves and then the
dog’s owner ran into view.
He told me he’d seen
the whole thing, mate. Said his dog
was a bloody idiot eh. And not
to worry – and he’d sort it too.
And so off to the vet he went
with his Terminator dog
rebuilding itself on the back seat.
I travelled the few hundred
more yards home and told
my folks. They said I’d need
to call later to make sure all was okay.
I told them I couldn’t.
And later that night, my father
found the phone book, got the number
and made a call on my behalf.