Burying Rosie

She went into the forest to die, Mother said. Animals do that. They slink away and die in secret, to keep you from being sad.

Her muddy pawprints are still there, on the porch steps. Her bowl is still there. Her food has gone mushy and moldy in the rain.

I remember what dead things under the house smell like. Even dead things in the forest must decay. I think of the pigs. Wild pigs eat anything, even bones. It makes me queasy to imagine her, in the belly of one of those big, black, bristled monsters.

I get out of bed, and creep down the hall, past my parents’ cracked door on my tiptoes. Silent as I can, I fish a flashlight from the junk drawer, and slip outside, jumping over the steps to avoid obscuring her pawprints.

I had wanted to name her something edible. Candy-Sprinkles or Cocoa. Maybe Rosebud.

Stripper names, Dad said, with a face that meant he was disgusted. How about Rose?

Rosie.

She wasn’t even the one I had wanted. I wanted the tiny, silky, black puppy that already had a pink ribbon around his neck which marked him as claimed. Not the rough, mottled brown mutt, who Dad called a puppy but was already so big.

We went into the kennel, and she jumped on my head, and the other puppy was forgotten on the car ride home. She was strapped in beside me, and I stuck my fingers through the holes in her box, giggling as she licked me. The markings on her face were like freckles. We matched.

“Rosie!” I call, as I pick through the forest, shining the light all around me, searching for her blotchy coat. It would be easy to miss her, against the ferns, and the shadows, and the claustrophobic tangle of the stick-like waiwi trees.

If she really wanted to curl up where no one would find her, it would be easy. But I don’t believe she would hide from me. From Mom and Dad, maybe. But not from me.

Mom said not to call her mine, that she belonged to the whole family. But that wasn’t true. She was mine, and I was hers. She stuck to me like a shadow, like a witch’s familiar, guarding me through all my adventures.

 I make it to the clearing where we used to play together, hide-and-seek and tag in the tall grass. There is no one and nothing here. Just the grass, which is frightening now, in the dark. I try not to think of all the things I am afraid of, all the things that could be lurking, not least of all my mother. It would be like her to hear my clumsy attempts at stealth but do nothing, and instead meet me in my room when I try to sneak back in, her face a mask of cold rage.

There is a crash in the trees behind me. I think of tusks and yellow eyes and hot, evil breath. I am not allowed on the road alone, but it seems safer than the forest now. Now that my secret hope has been extinguished, that I might find her, hiding in the grass, waiting for me. Tail wagging and ready to play.

I push my way through the bushes and emerge onto the road. It is one lane, with no lights, and hilly, and people go way too fast. I listen for cars and watch for headlights as I make my way back toward the house.

There is a buzzing. I don’t notice it at first. It builds with every step. It feels ominous, some power in the woods sensing me, alone, no dog at my heels for protection. Gathering up to do me harm.

I run the rest of the way, panic beating in my ears.. At the start of our driveway, which is long and winding, I stop. The buzzing is to my back, and I am scared to turn my head.. Images from the spookiest of stories flash through my head. Of a man made entirely of wasps, advancing, reaching out for me, preparing to crawl into my nose and mouth and ears and suffocate me, sting me, drag me into the dark.

But then I have a worse thought.

I turn on the flashlight, and whip around fast. There is no specter, no monster. Just the trees, and the ditch on the side of the road. A ditch I fell into once on my bike.

My breath is ragged, and the light wobbles with my shaky grip.

 I cross the road and investigate the ditch. There is something dead. Dead and covered in flies—a terrible second coat, black and lumpy.

I think: have my parents seen this? The question chills me, more than the wasp-man, more than the pigs. And I can see it, I can see my dad finding her in the road and dragging her into the ditch.

She was old, he said to me. Old dogs just die.

I slide into the ditch and beat away the flies with a stick. They disperse, but immediately return if I don’t constantly wave them away. There is a smell. I try hard not to smell it.

Her body is mangled. But her face looks the same, her eyes closed as if she were just sleeping. I touch her nose—it is dry. I stroke her snout, and her soft, delicate ears. I kiss her on the freckles at the corners of her eyes. Though I know the rain will wash it all away, I do my best to bury her with my hands. I cover her in mud and leaves and the small pink and white flowers which bloom by the road.

Meili is a writer from the island of Hawai’i. They live in Minnesota with their spouse and two cats. When not writing, they like to play video games, read, and go on long walks.

Published October 15 2023