*gun*
05-06-2001, 21:48
This morning, my dog died. It was a nice dog, just like any other – eminently lovable, warm and obedient. That’s why it had to go. You see, my parents, they run a ‘holiday home for dogs’, as they put it. In reality, it’s more a row of identical cages with a little handmade hut inside. With central heating. Fresh meat twice daily. With curtains. ****ing curtains, for a dog. Our dog was the worst, though. It had its own private mansion, complete with beautifully trimmed hedges, one bonsai in the shape of a little puppy, and a small outdoor pool. Seriously.
It was my parents fault, truth be told. They couldn’t have a second child after the damage I’d done to my mother as she spat me forth to the world, legs akimbo. Bitch. Blaming me for that? Maybe if she’d been a little more careful with me I wouldn’t have torn her to pieces like that. So. To top off the clichés, they bought a puppy. Spot. Ironic really, since as it got older – uglier - it lost it’s white eye patch. How cute. Now it was just a stupid black dog with an ill-fitting name. My parents pretended it was called Spot through a conscious grounding in irony, but like so many things they told me, this was a lie.
My Dad often talked to the dog, more than my mother. I never spoke to it, because I realised very early in my life that no matter how high the pitch of my voice is, or how many times I repeat a question with a sentimental rub of his drooling jowls, the dog is never going to suddenly gain the ability to speak fluent English. I doubt it has the intelligence to even learn French. It just sits their, apparently communicating with it’s big, doe-eyes watering, and my Father is satisfied. My Father is an idiot. So anyway, after he’d had his daily chat about British politics, the state of modern teenagers, and left for work,
I'd kill the dog. I was quite inventive, if a little inefficient. Blame the Internet. It’s not my fault they give out information on the construction of pipe bombs without consideration for who may read it, is it?
It was the smell of the dog that annoyed me more than any other single thing. A sweaty, thick, fetid stench. It was just so point-blank irritating. If you washed the ******* thing, it just put the stink everywhere, stroking it painted it onto your hands, like dipping your hand in wallpaper paste. It was disgusting. Of course, I couldn’t be so cruel to the creature as to blow it’s arse off while it was perfectly conscious, so I attempted to knock it out. Stupid thing wouldn’t even do that right, yelping pathetically with every blow to the head. I was aiming at what could have been it’s temple, but it wasn’t having the desired effect. Instead, I was reminded of Christmas Nineteen Ninety-Seven, when dearest Spot decided to eviscerate our Christmas cake, the ingredients of which included a bottle and-a-half of Brandy. The dog was pissed as a New Years Fart, and still stank just as rotten. That would be much more subtle.
I searched the basement, or wine cellar as they called it, the floor seemingly sticking to my hot, tensed body. Brandy was hard to come by, the one bottle I did find looking far too comfortable to pump into a mongrel, so I had to settle for vodka and valium. V is for Victory, after all. So, after a little throat-rubbing coercion, the idiot mutt gulped down at least a pint of vodka and a dozen tablets. Sadly, it was more resilient than I thought, and still managed to walk (albeit in slow-motion) over to me for a hug, it’s usual doe look replaced with something altogether more inebriated and bloodshot. I laughed as it stumbled incoherently into doors and walls. Then, I guess I had to finish the job. I got a cupful of bleach - I didn’t want it to recognise me – and daubed it onto his drooping eyes. It didn’t flinch, disappointingly. So anyway, with it’s eyes blinded and it’s leg wobbling around the room idiotically, I poured out a line of powdered rat poison. Brilliantly, the dog obviously had some experience with drugs, as it snorted the lot in a matter of seconds. I tumbled the surprisingly weighty bucket of dust down, making sure it looked as if it had fell from the utility cupboard. I grabbed my bicycle, and cycled hard away from the scene. It was done.
I lit up a cig once I reached my usual spot – a grassy hill at the end of an industrial estate, and got the inevitable phone-call.
It was Dad. He was then leaving work. And guess what? He’s got a new puppy...
It was my parents fault, truth be told. They couldn’t have a second child after the damage I’d done to my mother as she spat me forth to the world, legs akimbo. Bitch. Blaming me for that? Maybe if she’d been a little more careful with me I wouldn’t have torn her to pieces like that. So. To top off the clichés, they bought a puppy. Spot. Ironic really, since as it got older – uglier - it lost it’s white eye patch. How cute. Now it was just a stupid black dog with an ill-fitting name. My parents pretended it was called Spot through a conscious grounding in irony, but like so many things they told me, this was a lie.
My Dad often talked to the dog, more than my mother. I never spoke to it, because I realised very early in my life that no matter how high the pitch of my voice is, or how many times I repeat a question with a sentimental rub of his drooling jowls, the dog is never going to suddenly gain the ability to speak fluent English. I doubt it has the intelligence to even learn French. It just sits their, apparently communicating with it’s big, doe-eyes watering, and my Father is satisfied. My Father is an idiot. So anyway, after he’d had his daily chat about British politics, the state of modern teenagers, and left for work,
I'd kill the dog. I was quite inventive, if a little inefficient. Blame the Internet. It’s not my fault they give out information on the construction of pipe bombs without consideration for who may read it, is it?
It was the smell of the dog that annoyed me more than any other single thing. A sweaty, thick, fetid stench. It was just so point-blank irritating. If you washed the ******* thing, it just put the stink everywhere, stroking it painted it onto your hands, like dipping your hand in wallpaper paste. It was disgusting. Of course, I couldn’t be so cruel to the creature as to blow it’s arse off while it was perfectly conscious, so I attempted to knock it out. Stupid thing wouldn’t even do that right, yelping pathetically with every blow to the head. I was aiming at what could have been it’s temple, but it wasn’t having the desired effect. Instead, I was reminded of Christmas Nineteen Ninety-Seven, when dearest Spot decided to eviscerate our Christmas cake, the ingredients of which included a bottle and-a-half of Brandy. The dog was pissed as a New Years Fart, and still stank just as rotten. That would be much more subtle.
I searched the basement, or wine cellar as they called it, the floor seemingly sticking to my hot, tensed body. Brandy was hard to come by, the one bottle I did find looking far too comfortable to pump into a mongrel, so I had to settle for vodka and valium. V is for Victory, after all. So, after a little throat-rubbing coercion, the idiot mutt gulped down at least a pint of vodka and a dozen tablets. Sadly, it was more resilient than I thought, and still managed to walk (albeit in slow-motion) over to me for a hug, it’s usual doe look replaced with something altogether more inebriated and bloodshot. I laughed as it stumbled incoherently into doors and walls. Then, I guess I had to finish the job. I got a cupful of bleach - I didn’t want it to recognise me – and daubed it onto his drooping eyes. It didn’t flinch, disappointingly. So anyway, with it’s eyes blinded and it’s leg wobbling around the room idiotically, I poured out a line of powdered rat poison. Brilliantly, the dog obviously had some experience with drugs, as it snorted the lot in a matter of seconds. I tumbled the surprisingly weighty bucket of dust down, making sure it looked as if it had fell from the utility cupboard. I grabbed my bicycle, and cycled hard away from the scene. It was done.
I lit up a cig once I reached my usual spot – a grassy hill at the end of an industrial estate, and got the inevitable phone-call.
It was Dad. He was then leaving work. And guess what? He’s got a new puppy...