My parents pulled into our rocky drive way after an Easter weekend of visiting my grandparents in Olympia. As I opened the front door my eager dog, Cori, rushed out to see my mom who was getting the mail. I told her in an upbeat and encouraging voice, “Go get her Cor!” Cori disappeared into the night with her sleek black fur, I watched the white tip of her tail as she was crossing the street like the happy dog she is. She was just about to step onto the yellow line when suddenly I hear a screech of tires, an awful whine of desperation and shock and a retching smack of a metal bumper to Cori’s fragile physique. I started running as fast as I possibly could while bawling my eyes out, to see if she was okay. She had been hit right in front of our mailbox and ending up thirty feet away from the shiny, black Escalade down our street. She was unconscious and lying on the cold, hard pavement. I ran back inside to get my dad, not wanting to leave Cori and my, also bawling, mom behind. He ran back outside with a large board that he could pick Cori up with without hurting her, incase she had broken any bones. My dad checked her pulse to see if she was still breathing and as he gently touched her neck, she looked up at him with thankfulness in her big, brown eyes. She was thankful for him being there making sure she was okay and mostly, for caring. She hopped right up and licked him on the face. A rush of relief ran throughout my body as I started crying even harder, but this time, with tears of joy. Just to be safe, my dad picked Cori up and placed her inside our car, without even asking if I could go, I jumped in, because I felt that no matter what he said, I was going with him. On the fifteen minute ride to the animal hospital, I cried, still in shock of what had just happened, but mostly, I thought. I thought about what it would be like without my comforting dog greeting me by running down the stairs with her uncontrollable wagging tail as I walked into my house. I thought about how I wouldn’t be able to pet her smooth fur or feel her coarse, pink tongue on my hands when she licked me. I looked back behind my seat at her lying down looking up at me. I got this assuring feeling that everything was going to be okay. We took her into the clinic, explained what had happened and they took her to the back room. She walked out just as happy but a little more confused than before. The vet told my dad and me that she was perfectly fine. Nothing was broken, no internal bleeding, she was okay. They just said she would need a couple days to rest because she would probably still be in shock. On the ride home I was bouncing back and forth through the radio stations like I usually do and I stopped when I heard a Bob Marley song. I sang quietly along with the lyrics, “…don’t worry ’bout a thing, ’cause every little thing is gonna be alright…” As I sang along with those words, I realized miracles really do happen.
I guess as I went on and on while writing this, I realized that I have a strong belief in miracles. It’s a miracle that someone beat Cori then abandoned her and she’s still a cheerful dog. It’s a miracle that I picked her out of at least seventy other dogs with sad, hopeful faces at the Humane Society. Lastly, it’s a miracle that Cori is alive and well, lying protectively next to me as I’m writing this essay. This, I Believe.
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