Two days of regular feedings, researched recommendations followed, cuddles and compassion unlimited. Even the dog knew. A baby, hurt, he sniffed and sat in anxious curiosity.
Curled in a ball, variegated shades of brown resting against my sternum, warm and safe.
2am feeding. Greedily sucking Pedialite from a tiny syringe. Smacking lips, then nothing. Body still.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Rocky died…” Uncontrollable sobbing into fitful sleep.
Knowing he passed safe and warm, the only consolation.
This blog post is part of Charli Mill’s Flash Fiction Challenge issued by Carrot Ranch Communications. August 5, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write the common premise: “I ran over a deer (or other animal) and have decided to nurse it back to health.”