1I was six years old when, one day, my dog was struck, by a car while getting ready for school. 2My mother and I heard the terrifying sound of squealing brakes. 3In a low voice, she said, Oh, my God—Blackie. 4I remember trailing her out the door and seeing a car fill with teenagers and a spreading pool of bright blood on our cobblestoned street. 5To me, it seemed only a matter of seconds until a police car pulled up. 6The officer glanced at the crumpled dog under the car. 7And drew his gun. 8My mother shouted, "No!" 9She crawled halfway under the car and took the dog, like a sack of flour, out from under the wheels, 10Her housedress was splashed with blood, she cradled the limp dog in her arms and ordered the officers to drive her to the vets office, 11It was only then that she remembered me, I think. 12She patted my head, was telling me to walk up to school, and reassured me that Blackie would be all right. 13The rest of the story including Blackie's slow recovery and few more years of life, are fuzzy and vague now. 14But the sights and sounds of those few moments are as vivid to me now as they were twenty-five years ago.