Man, Woman, Dog

 

Man, Woman, Dog

By Delphie Levy Jones

It lay there, still as anything. Still as pap’s lake up in the pines. Its floppy, scruffy little head flat against the dirt and its tongue lying lull out its stinkin sweatin mouth. I hated it. Whiny little thing. In fact, I didn’t hate it. I felt as I do t’wards most things about it. Nothing.

Its blood, the deepest and prettiest of reds, oozed out its axed neck and around my boots. Squelch. Ha. What a funny noise. And then that screech I knew was coming came. I tuned her out, as I do, as you would. The banshee’d be next if she shrieked anymore in my ears. Then the whinin', then the pleadin', then the cryin', and before I knew it, she was grovellin' at my feet in the bloody soil.

Pap had taught me to hunt. Squirrels, pheasants. If it was dumb enough to take the bait, I didn’t care what prey it was. The mutt was by far my most prized quarry. I’d been wantin' the barkin’ beast gone since she’d ever brought it back to the cabin. And as she knelt there, claspin for my axe, sobbin’ and splutterin’, I couldn’t help but wonder how her blood would sound squelching under my boots.