Motti by Asaf Schurr Page B

a profound hostility toward dog owners who just can’t wait to put to sleep or give away the pets who so adore them, and an even greater hostility toward those who refuse to spay and neuter: “We want her to experience the joy of giving birth, and for the children to enjoy it too, that connection with nature, there’s nothing like it,” they say, and they don’t know what they’re saying, don’t know about the puppies crowding the cages of shelters and pounds, soon put to death or dying of their own accord; and she too, when she’s already a district vet, she’ll start being a little too free with the syringe, in the evening she’ll go home just wanting to forget it all, put her feet up on the coffee table and sigh; her own dog will put its head on her knees, looking at her expectantly, and she’ll stroke her—the dog—absentmindedly and think of suffering).
    Then they went out again, and Menachem said, cut the crap, I’m fine, come on, I’ll give you a ride home.
    So in they got, fastened their seatbelts, and started to drive. And then that dull thud (I didn’t see where she came from, I didn’t see her, Menachem said over and over, like he was possessed or something), and the crowd collecting after they got out of the car, the police lights, the muttering, the shouts, even the great astonishment, for up till now it was the persistence of life that had surprised Menachem. When his children were small he would wake in a panic from bad dreams and hurry to their room to check whether they were still breathing or if they’d died in their sleep, nothing to it, like a spark shining brightly, briefly, then going out completely and that’s that. Not that it was always easy with them, no, mostly he didn’t know what to do with them, with the kids and Edna, alive and his and they’re all together, but the thought of losing them, that they wouldn’t be there anymore (that there would no longer be any possibility of being together, whether this possibility was taken advantage of or not), that was something he couldn’t conceive of.
    So he hurried to their room at night again and again, and was astonished every time to see how life was preserved, how this stubborn thread continued, this metabolism, these breaths. And now, one little blow—and that was it. Sarah Rosenthal’s soul departed in an instant, assuming she had one in the first place (assuming we all do, whether fictional or not). What could Menachem do? Around him shouts and flashing lights, cries of Mister, Mister, and him in the middle of it all, going back to the car and sitting down in the passenger seat, he wants to keep his distance from the steering wheel, his head in his hands, his nose and then his hands full of snot, moaning like a monkey, like a miserable animal, and Motti by the open car door, still standing. Oh God oh God (he moans), what have I done, Motti, what have I done, I swear I never saw her, oh God, Edna’s going to kill me, what am I going to do now.
    Â 
    Dear Dad (Menachem’s son might have written to him had he gone to jail) please by me a horse
    Mom misses you a lot and she crys all the time she gets angri with us but we know its onliey becos she misses you and its hard for her and we miss you too and we want to come and visit you soon
    Yours with love your son Avi
    Â 
    So weak he suddenly became, Menachem.
    Edna’s going to kill me, he said. My kids will grow up without a father, what will I tell them. This is my third offence, they’ll fuck me over in court.
    And when the paramedic asked, is someone here with her, Motti said, yes, we are. Then the paramedic said, we’re going to such-and-such hospital; they put her in the trauma ward, and there was an elderly man who stroked his stomach and moaned loudly Mama Mama, and to anyone willing to listen he said, two days already I haven’t had a bowel movement, two days already I