Bobo
By Veronica Zhang | Grade 9 | Scholastic 2024 | Flash Fiction | Gold Key
I’ve lived with Annie my entire life. One of my earliest memories was of her 3-year-old frame toddling over to cuddle with me in the animal shelter.
“Bobo,” she babbled, stroking my fur. “Good girl.”
As the only child of the household, Annie was my favorite person. She left for daycare in the mornings, but she always came back in the afternoon to play with me. Climbing onto my back, clasping her pudgy arms around my neck. It was the best.
“Go horsie, go!” she squealed, giggling as I ran around the house until she slid off. And I would bark with laughter.
I remember following Annie everywhere, before she got too big for me to carry, before I became old. Her brown curls bouncing around, her little legs splashing through puddles after it rained, her amber eyes glistening whenever she saw something exciting. And I witnessed it, every single moment.
The other kids in the neighborhood didn’t like Annie much, I think. They all walked to school in packs, while she walked with her mother. When she got home, she always told me about her day, how hard her algebra test was, how she hated homework. And then she would whisper about her empty lunch table, how she didn’t have a partner for the science project next week. She said she wished she were another girl named Bethany, because Bethany had a lot of friends. That made me really sad, because I wanted Annie, not Bethany. Sometimes she would cry after saying all this. So I would bring her Harold– my favorite toy horse. That made her happy. She would hug me to her chest and I would listen to her faint heartbeat thumping.
I did my best to keep her company, so she would never feel left out.
But when she got even older, our morning walks abruptly ended. She started using the car, the one that her mother always drove. When she got home, I would stand under my lime green leash, hanging in the hallway, whining. But Annie simply shook her head.
“Sorry Bobo, I have too much homework,” she said, leaning down to scratch under my collar, kissing my nose.
So instead I laid at her feet while she worked. Sometimes, this new Annie felt very different. Many nights she would shut the door to her bedroom, locking me out. I would scratch and scratch at the wooden boards until she opened them, little trickles of tears drying on her gaunt face. Whenever I saw this, I brought Harold to cheer her up. That always made her smile. Always.
Around that time, my frenzied laps around the backyard became less and less frequent. Going on walks, my joints would ache unbearably. And then Annie told me we couldn’t go out anymore: bad for me, she said. I think she misses the walks as much as I do.
That is why I am surprised when she grabs my faded green leash from its hook in the front hall. The little lump in her throat bobs up and down as she beckons me over.
“Come on, Bobo. Let’s go to the vet.”
I can see she is sad, so I turn to go grab Harold, but she cuts me off. “We have an appointment, Bobo. We can’t be late.”
We park outside the stone gray building and she picks me up, massaging my aching paws. Thanks, Annie. She whispers a few words to the receptionist as I blink at the ashy tiles swirling with animal hair and dust. She plops down in a muted beige waiting chair in the corner, the same one she always sits in. “It has the best angle towards the television, Bobo,” she told me a long time ago.
“Annie Foster and Bonnie.”
I nestle my ear against Annie’s chest and listen to her heart beat, a little faster than usual.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
The doctor hands Annie a packet of paperwork. Tears trickle down her face and stain the crisp white sheets as she signs each one. There’s so many. I feel a little anxious. They usually give me shots when I come here, so are these all shots? I’ve been here many times before, but it never gets easier. It always hurts.
“Euthanasia,” the doctor drones. “I know it was a hard decision, but I assure you this is for the better, Ms. Foster.” He rolls a tiny vial of clear fluid between his fingers.
Annie leans over, scratches me under the collar, and kisses me on the nose. I think this is the clearest I’ve ever seen her big amber eyes. She whispers to me: “I’m sorry, Bobo.” The silver needle glistens.
Why is she crying so much? I can handle shots.
“I love you, Bobo.”
The needle stings a little. I love you too, Annie.
