Wait ... what was I thinking? I could never show that to Dr.
Marcy. What would she think of me?
Killing my dog? She’ll think I’m a psycho.
That I have some serious issues.
I don’t want her to think I'm a psycho. I don't want her to think I have some serious issues. She’d have me
institutionalized or something. Put me on tranquilizers. I’d end up like that Big Chief guy in One Flew Over theCuckoo’s Nest.
No, I need something else. Something more reasonable. Something more sane. I scribble out the entire passage.
Crumple the paper up. Toss it at the trashcan.
Instead, I write:
One night it was cold and snowing. Derby didn’t get in bed
with me like he usually did. I got out of bed and looked all through the house,
but I couldn’t find him. I called his name.
Derby!
Derby!
Here boy!
He didn’t come.
The next morning, Dad decided that Derby must have gotten out. He must have run away.
I never saw him again.
