Wheels

I step up to the back door

and bang on it,

and bang

again,

but no one answers.

What if he’s not home?

What if he doesn’t want to answer the door?

What if he tells me to go on home?

Then I run to the garage

and bang on that door

and again.

Finally it slides open,

and Mr. Dell stands there, looking fierce.

I push away my fear

and say, “Pattress is hurt, she’s in the woods, and she can’t walk.”

“Wait here,” he says gruffly.

He goes deep into the garage

and comes out pushing a wheelbarrow

with a blanket in it. “Let’s go,” he says.

I run back to the woods,

and he follows.

It is sad and sweet

to see how tenderly Mr. Dell touches Pattress

and talks to her. “Good girl,” he says.

She whimpers back at him.

“Something got your turkey,” he says. “Probably that coyote

we’ve been hearing.”

“And Pattress tried to get it,” I say.

“She saved the rest of the turkeys,” Mama says.

Mr. Dell says, “We have to get her on the blanket

and lift her. Help me,

please.”

It’s the first thing he’s ever said to us

nicely.

Pattress’s paws hang over the edges

and her head lolls. I steady her

as we wheel her slowly to the garage.

Then we slide her onto the seat in Mr. Dell’s pickup truck.

I fold the edge over her so she’ll stay warm.

I want to go to the vet with Pattress

but not with Mr. Dell.

Mama and I walk home together

slowly.

She’s looking at the ground

and moving her lips,

saying a prayer, I think.

I don’t know who she’s praying for,

but I say one for Pattress.