Wreckage
Rachel Weinhaus

The year we started seeing other people, Pixie lost one of her seven. The pup was born stiff, a limp rag doll. Pixie became distant, refusing to nurse. Six sweet little whines couldn’t penetrate. Their paws like cold pebbles and Pixie’s golden pupils blinked dull. My husband, in the other bedroom, exhausted from every-two-hour, round-the-clock bottle feeds, shifting heating pads, and witnessing my tears, went on Reddit. Someone mentioned a grieving dog—how the dog had lost his canine best friend to a driver who never even stopped—how a stuffed animal comforted the mourning dog.

I wandered the pet store aisles, wondering if my husband and I could love each other again if we grieved hard enough. I tucked a plush toy beside Pixie, and by morning, Duck’s fluffy wings were dampened with moisture. Pixie wouldn’t let me near, growling low, but when I brought a bottle, she quieted. I held Duck and lifted a bottle to his beak. Pixie’s eyes returned to fairy dust. When we reunited her with all six kin, she melted into them. I asked my husband to hold Duck too, but he wouldn’t. I still think of that driver, driving as far away from the wreckage as he could, unwilling to look back.

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Rachel Weinhaus’s Comments

I think Pixie came to me as a reminder that the only way through grief is to engage with it. She’s the character who heals the most—and, like the main character, I admire her.

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