Dog breath. Dog tongue. *Wet* dog tongue. I groan. Weight is spread evenly across my chest. Soft fur brushes against my numb hands. More dog tongue. I open my eyes. Shoppers stay shopping. It's just Aspen and I. I smile.
A few minutes later I decide it's time to risk getting up. I signal Aspen off my chest and push myself into a sitting position. My mouth doesn't work, but that's okay. I can feel her tail wagging.
Aspen presses something into my hand. I look down and realise it's a dog phone. I give her a thumbs up before pushing the button. On the other end is Bella, who informs me she'll be waiting in our usual place in 10 minutes.
Slowly, I get off the floor. I can see, but it's blurry and distorted. I can hear, but I can't decode the noise. My extremities are numb. Very numb. I struggle to think. All I can do is grab onto Aspen's handle.
Aspen expertly weaves us through the crowds. I don't stumble, because she stops at every change of elevation. She knows where she's going. I focus on not fainting.
Aspen finds the car before I even comprehended where we were. Bella comes out to greet me, opening the car door. I slump into the seat and close my eyes. A warm lump sits on my feet. I rub Aspen's ear, trying to spit out some form of verbal praise but fail. She doesn't care. I feel her tail thumping on my foot. It soothes me as I fall into a deep sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Aspen
Short StoryA short story comparing what life is like before and after having an assistance dog during a medical crisis.
