Bullet


"It can't quit," she said, sitting up against a tree.  She was talking to her dog, Bullet.  They were at a park nearby the train tracks.  It had been a humid morning.
      She'd been thinking about projects, her career, the company she worked for.  She was almost fired because she did things the way she wanted, the way she felt was best.  She had more experience working with the crippled patients and she wanted to spend more time with them, more than the company allowed.  They were working on their budget.
      Bullet put his paw up, then lay it on a budding violet.  He was big and black and soft and was seventeen years old.  Soon he would be dying.  She told him that she would quit her job, but she didn't know if she could afford it.  She thought about the patients.  All of them she loved.  She tried to think what was important.  She thought about demands and needs.  About what she really wanted.
      She got up and walked to the Exxon station, where she got a Coke, and she bought Bullet some Beef Jerky.  An old man pushed a wobbly buggy.  Bullet waited outside of the station.  It was about to rain.  The temperature dropped a dozen notches.  
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