In the past, the iron gate had always closed and clicked tightly behind Cathii LaPierre.

Why would this time, the day after Thanksgiving, be any different? But this time, Black Friday truly was Black Friday.

LaPierre, her arms filled with lumber, the sun already down, didn’t notice that her dogs had slipped through two doors before reaching the backyard. She said the gate’s locking area, stuffed with snow, didn’t snap shut this time.

The dogs nudged open the gate and ran onto Washington Street. Both came home, but one of them, Poppy, a 2-year-old pit bull mix, died that night, hit by a car, make and model unknown, the driver gone in a flash.

“Some people are asses,” LaPierre told me. “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”

Poppy was born with a cyst behind her right eye that could have burst at any time. She also had glaucoma. Her eye was surgically removed when she was a puppy, adding, somehow, to the story about the dog killed in a hit-and-run accident.

LaPierre is a 43-year-old stay-at-home mom. She exhibited a kaleidoscope of emotions during my visit, mostly sad, but also equal parts mad, guilt-ridden and disillusioned. How much of the blame falls on her shoulders? Is it fair that Poppy’s foster parents shunned her? And who would hit a dog and not stop?

Her 3-year-old son, Brayden, and her other dog, 6-year-old Peanut, were in the living room with us, both playing, neither with a care in the world.

But LaPierre knows this incident, this vision, will stick with her for a long time, because LaPierre loves dogs, and she loves them more than most of us do.

For the past three years, she’s fostered between 30 and 40 rescue dogs, homeless and often abused pets from South Carolina. She’s found homes for all of them, once keeping three for a while on top of Peanut and Poppy.

If they could speak, their stories would no doubt break our hearts.

“Peanut was being chased by a group of boys,” LaPierre said. “They were chasing her and shooting a BB gun at her.”

Peanut is sleek, aerodynamically built, like a small Greyhound, and faster than a speeding bullet. She’s a mix of something. LaPierre isn’t sure what.

Poppy arrived here 1½ years ago, her one eye creating sympathy and respect for a dog who had paid some serious dues and lived to bark about it. She was a sensation in South Carolina, followed by dozens on Facebook, posing for pictures and given a going-away party once the adoption had been completed.

Then came Black Friday.

LaPierre, a painter who will show her artwork for the first time Saturday, had her hands full with the lumber she uses as a back-drop for her paintings.

She opened the gate, then moved through two more doors leading inside the house, off the living room. The dogs saw their chance and made a break for it. Normally, the open doors would not have meant anything if the gate had shut properly.

But it hadn’t, and the dogs saw a chance to explore, staring at them, tempting them.

“They’re opportunistic,” LaPierre noted. “They loved to go to the river to play.”

Peanut came home, moving strangely, bouncing for some strange reason, as though she had something to say. That’s when LaPierre opened the back door to call Poppy and found her lying on the deck, against the house, right outside.

There was blood. Her mouth and teeth were damaged. Road rash was visible. LaPierre’s husband, Josh, turned a bookshelf into a stretcher and rushed Poppy to CAVES, an all-night hospital for animals.

He called LaPierre, who was too distraught to go with him. Poppy had a collapsed lung. Internal organs were damaged. She died on the table, before the vet could euthanize her.

LaPierre called the police, but there was nothing they could do without a witness or a license plate number.

Then it got worse, when the blame game began. LaPierre received a Facebook message that read, “How could you let her run loose to get hit by a car. Didn’t have to happen.”

The writer also included Poppy’s former name, Dreka, from her former life, prompting LaPierre to say, “It’s as though I’m not even worthy of naming my own dog.”

And the arrows didn’t stop there. LaPierre messaged Poppy’s previous caretaker, looking for information or photos for this column. She was told they couldn’t help her.

These days, LaPierre continues to fight an inward battle, telling me, “I feel like the worst dog owner. I blame myself.”

Other messages – most of them, in fact – told LaPierre that this could have happened to anyone, that it was just bad luck, that she deserved some sympathy during a time of grief.

As for the accident, LaPierre said, sure, she would have been mad if the driver had knocked on her door. But, she said, an example of honesty and integrity would have comforted her in the days that followed.

And don’t try telling her the driver may not have known Poppy had been hit. LaPierre is not buying it.

“She weighed like 50 pounds,” LaPierre said. “The person who did this had to know. There had to be damage to the car.

“They know.”