When you speak from your heart; and say the words your soul has only dared to whisper; that's when miracles happen.
I hope you were going somewhere important when you drove so fast down the road on Friday night. Perhaps we’d feel better if we could imagine that you were a doctor rushing somewhere to deliver a baby or ease somebody’s pain. The life of our dog to shorten someone’s suffering - that might not have been so bad.
But even though all we saw of you was your car’s black shadow and its jumping tail lights we know too much about you to believe it. You saw the dog, you stepped on your brakes, you felt a thump, you heard a yelp and then my nephew’s scream. Your reflexes are good, we know, because you jumped on the accelerator again and got out fast. You didn’t bother to look, so I’ll tell you what the thump and the yelp were. They were Tessa, a six-month-old Maltese Poodle puppy; white, with brown and black markings. An aristocrat, with an air of superior belonging; but she clowned and she chased, she loved people and children and other dogs as much as any mongrel on earth.
I’m sorry you didn’t stick around to see the job you did, though a dog dying by the side of the road isn’t a pretty sight. In less than two seconds you and that car of yours transformed a living being that had been beautiful, clean, soft and loving into something dirty, ugly and broken. I hope to God that when you hit my dog you had for a moment the sick, dead feeling in the throat and down to the stomach that we have known ever since. And that you feel it whenever you think about speeding down a side road again.
Because the next time some eight-year-old boy might be wobbling along on his first bicycle. Or a very little one might wander out past the gate and into the road in the moment it takes his parent to bend down to pull out a weed the way my puppy got away from me. Or perhaps you’ll be really lucky again, and only kill another dog, and break the heart of another family…