All our days will be better than his

A few blocks after the raw anger of a skunk was done in the air, I rode my bike up over the only real hill there is. At the top, there was a couple hunched over a small pile of something the color of a fox.

Their look was true bewilderment, an uncommon look.

When I asked what was wrong, the guy (who had his bare feet against the ground, even though it's just over 50°) looked up and said, "Hit by car."

It wasn't their car—that car was gone. They lived across the street and crossed it when they saw what happened, to be near the body.

It wasn't their dog—it turned out to be a dog, some strain of Pomeranian—either.

Like I said, they just saw it happen and crossed the street.

"He's just about..." the guy said as he bent down to touch the dog's face below the ear. "No, he just died."

We looked at it and each other, not really sure of what to say or do.

"Can you guys call Animal Control?" I asked after a bit. "They'll take care of the body."

They said they would. "There's no collar, but maybe he's chipped."

I got back on the seat, ready to go where I work, and the guy said, just in this way: All our days will be better than his.