60w, 6dLittle Dashie fanbase...
Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the little wheels of the small wooden trolley. It was a smooth, rectangular polished board made of oak, with four little wheels set into axles. At one end was attached a clean, white rope, lovingly tied through a neatly drilled hole. I held the end of the rope in my hand as I moved slowly down the sidewalk.
I didn’t want to pull her very quickly, my little Dashie. She was there, on the board, her wings neatly folded at her sides, blue and lovely as ever. I had asked him to put them that way, and use the finest wires and stuffing inside, so that she would seem calm and safe and relaxed as she stood on the trolley.
The taxidermist had done his best, and she looked more alive now than when I had first found her, the dear little thing, inside that cardboard box. I wiped a tear from my eye, as I walked, my little Dashie trundling after. It was our daily ritual, our daily walk.
I think she really liked it, to be out in the open air. I tried to show her glass eyes the best views. Sometimes I like to pause and lift her up, and hold her so that she can see the sky. I point her eyes at the clouds, so that she can see them. I know she loves the big, white, fluffy ones the best.
We reach the park, Dashie and I. We move onto the thick, green grass so carefully, so that the little cart does not tip over. One time it did, for I was pulling her with such excitement, ready to show her all the wonders of the world, and she had come unattached from her little trolley, the tiny nails sticking up, little bits of fluff and stuffing still clinging to them. But the taxidermist fixed her. He always fixes her. Unlike that veterinarian.
At the park, I talk to her, and explain all the wonderful things, in case her glass eyes cannot see far enough. I hold my little blue pegasus, and rock her in my arms. Sometimes it is too much, and I begin to cry. I want her to move, to leap up and fly around, but she is still, nailed to her trolley.
I cannot help myself. I pick some long, tasty-looking grass from the lawn of the park, and hold it to her mouth. Here, little Dashie, some lovely grass. The tears stream down my cheeks. Please, my little love, my little pony, maybe the grass will help you. Maybe the grass will make you strong again.
Then I am sobbing in the grass, but Dashie is so brave for me. She just stands there, her wings at her side, waiting. She always waits for me. She is so much stronger than I am. Her eyes always look upon me with kindness, always being strong for me. My Dashie, my little blue pegasus.
Maybe some flowers would be better. I pick the best dandelions I can find, succulent and golden yellow, and press them to her insensate muzzle. I keep pushing them into her mouth, but it does not open, the stitches tight and strong. Please Dashie, oh god, please, just eat. Eat for me. I want her to grow strong so much.
Blinded by tears, I pull the little trolley, with my Dashie, my darling Dashie, over to where happy children play, with their little dog. Friends! That is what my little Dashie needs, friends to cheer her, to give her a reason to come back to me. Loving children, and their cute little doggie. That will surely help her.
I am stumbling now, the tears raining down my face, my mouth agape in sorrow. My little Dashie, oh my best friend, she trundles after me, always standing proud. The children don’t understand my crying. How could they. They can’t know the sorrow I felt when the vet injected my sweet blue friend and her eyes closed as she gasped her last farewell.
The dog is barking, poor little thing. It must be frightened by the rolling, squeeking sound of the wheels of the little cart that Dashie stands upon. I stop my approach, as the children run off, I don’t know why. But their dog remains, barking. How loyal, I think, loyal like my darling Dashie, standing there growling and barking, its ears low, trying to protect the children now long since fled.
As I stop, the cart has hit a bump in the grass, and my little Dashie topples over, to land on her side in the grass. Before I can reach down to lift her up and carefully, lovingly straighten her feathers and smooth her coat the dog is upon her, worrying her like a bone.
My tears burst forth, a broken dam of emotion as bright, robin’s-egg-blue feathers fly up into the air, and the stuffing pops out from the torn seams. The little doggie is running now. my Dashie’s head in it’s jaws, the lawn covered in a white snow of kapok and cotton.
I bend down to pick up a single, glass eye, and a small blue feather.
I hold the feather high, above my head, and let the wind catch it.
Fly, my little Dashie, fly.