Danny

I loved Danny. Danny, who had brown hair and laughing eyes. Danny, always ready to play with me when I was bored. Danny, providing comfort like no one else could when bad things happened. Danny, who was seven years old to my four that summer. The summer he died.

It was hot that summer. The hottest summer in 50 years they would say on the news. All the kids would race down to the beach as soon as it got hot, desperate to be enveloped in the cool waves. Danny loved the beach. He always had so much fun, and made it so much fun for the rest of us. We’d take off our shoes and do a gasping, skipping dance down to the water, trying to keep our feet off the burning hot sand. Danny was invariably first into the water, making us scream when he splashed us with the water that felt deliciously cold on our parched skin. Then we’d drag ourselves back to our sweltering homes, licking ice creams that left our hands and faces sticky. There was an art to eating ice creams. You wanted to make it last as long as possible, but you had to eat it fast enough to stop the melting ice cream trickling down you arm, or, even worse, melting so much that it fell off the stick and sizzled gently on the footpath.

When we got home we’d collapse on the couch with a fan blowing in our hot faces, watching the cricket blaring out from the TV. Even Danny, who always appeared to have endless energy, would seem tired, just lying on the couch next to me, not moving. I suppose my parents knew then that he wasn’t well, but they kept it from me, protecting my innocence.

Eventually they had to tell me. Even I’d noticed that Danny wasn’t as playful and energetic as usual. They sat me down in my room one day, while Danny was outside. I cringed, assuming that they were going to tell me off. They were both very serious, but when they didn’t sound angry I realised something was wrong. They told me that Danny had diabetes. He also had kidney problems, and the heat of the summer had worn him out too much. I didn’t really understand what they meant. I just knew that Danny was sick.

About a week later we got in the car to go for a drive. Danny came with us, so I thought we were going somewhere fun, like the beach. I thought he seemed better – he was smiling at me and sticking his head out of the car window. Then I looked out of my window and realised that we were going in the opposite direction to the beach. The only time we had come this way was when Danny had his injections. I immediately thought the worst – that Danny was going to die. I started screaming and pulling on the door handle to get out. I wanted to take Danny and run away as fast as I could. Luckily the child lock was on, so I couldn’t get out. I don’t think I would have survived falling from a car onto hot bitumen at the speed we were going.

I don’t remember much after that. My parents bought me an icecream to make me feel better, but this time I didn’t care when it dripped onto my hands and feet. I sat in the waiting room, hot, angry tears falling down my cheeks, and my nose running down to my chin. When my parents came to take me back to the car they were very quiet. I cried even harder when I saw that Danny wasn’t with them. I didn’t even have breath to complain when the hot seatbelt touched my skin. We drove home in silence, except for my intermittent sobs. My head ached all over, and my throat was raw from crying. I fell onto my bed and slept for the rest of the afternoon and right through the night.

We had a funeral for Danny the next day. We’ve still got a little memorial in our back garden, and I have photos of him on my desk. I still remember what a great friend he was, and how he always knew how to make me laugh. It was one of the worst days of my life when he died, but I try not to think about that now. Instead I just remember all the fun we had together. He was the best dog in the world, and I still love him.