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Dead Puppies in a Pillowcase |
| Written by J. J. White | |
| Monday, 28 January 2008 | |
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Share it:       He wondered why anyone would name their ***** Lupo. Lupo was a man’s name not a woman’s. The blond German shepherd backed away from Michael Harrison when he scowled at the playful dog. Dogs and Michael didn’t habituate well. One of them had to go and it was obvious to him that it had to be his plump wives’ filthy, smelly *****, Lupo. If Madge left when the mutt did it would be the first time in three years that he could say he was happy. He’d managed to stay single for 42 years and had every intention of keeping it that way, but then she manipulated his weaknesses. He hated his frailty, his momentary lapse to the temptation of the flesh. They were both lonely and tired that night, after their shift ended in the hospital. Two lonely nurses, four margaritas, ten minutes of mediocre sex, and his life was changed forever, or as Michael complained to his fellow male nurses during his shift, ruined forever. He didn’t consider marriage until Madge told him of her pregnancy. What could he do? If he didn’t marry her what would the administrators say, or more importantly, what would they do? He had no choice. He had to let this woman bear his child, and let her move into his tidy, efficient, and clean house with her filthy mongrel. But the birth of his son was not to be. Madge wasn’t even capable of performing the simple task of childbirth. The boy was stillborn. He accepted his situation, regardless of his feelings for his new wife, but drew the line on that mongrel, Lupo. Oil and water and cats and dogs don’t mix, and Michael had his three precious cats, who, like him, would not tolerate the beastly, yellow toothed, feline killer in the house… his house. And yet, for three years, that’s exactly what happened. His shrew of a wife and her pet Lupo, came, saw, and conquered his beautiful home and his precious friends, Cassius, Cicero, and Atticus. The cats were his children, no, they were better than children; the cats willingly gave their affection and provided quiet, unselfish comfort to Michael for the small price of food and shelter. Cassius and Cicero, the two Persians, were the latest in a long line of cats owned by him over his lifetime. Their affection for Michael was unequivocal and he willingly and openly returned the admiration. Madge often complained that he loved those cats more than her. A statement he wouldn’t dispute. Why should he pretend to love her when he never had? The calico, Atticus, was not as affectionate as the Persians, which Michael attributed to the cat’s sex and youth. Male cats were normally not good pets until they were neutered and the surgery was scheduled. But Atticus was not a problem. For Michael, Lupo, Madge’s German shepherd, was the problem. From the day the ***** entered his household his babies had never been the same. Lupo was unrelenting in her attacks on his defenseless cats. It’s true she never physically attacked them, but she kept a never ending foray of harassment that left his precious trio perpetually in a nervous state of anxiety. He couldn’t stand to see his cats treated this way, humiliated by that ***** with her constant sniffing and corralling of the cats when all they wanted, was to be left alone. Sometimes fortunate events are created by those who seek them, and sometimes they appear by fate. For Michael, it was the latter. Fate, blessed fate, had come to rescue him. The ***** had a litter. That, he considered, was an unfortunate bit of fate, but when Madge’s mother suffered a malaise of gout that left her in need of assistance from her daughter for at least a week, he changed his mind. He, to his own admittance, a vengeful despiser of canines and staunch defender of felines, was left alone to baby sit a mother and her five three-week old pups. He had no plan devised other than to rid himself of the dogs. That evening, after Madge was safely out of the house, Michael calmly removed an old pillowcase from the linen closet and walked down the basement stairs, followed closely by his cats. The sleeping Lupo woke from the noise, bared her sharp teeth, and growled at Michael and his contented tabbies. Somehow the cats sensed that something of importance, something that involved them, was about to happen. Michael approached the five puppies then backed off when Lupo stood defensively. The dog nipped Michael on the arm as he attached a leash to her collar. He pulled hard on the leash, dragging the frantic dog to the corner of the basement, where he secured her to a post. Then he lifted each puppy by the scruff of the neck, took some time to stare at them closely, and then placed them in the pillowcase. He curiously held the last puppy longer than the others. It was an odd looking pup. Its grayish-white fur, and light blue eyes made it stand out from the others, but no matter, they’d all die the same, regardless. In a defiant gesture, the cats brushed by Lupo just out of harm’s way, then followed their master up the stairs and outside into the backyard, where they walked a hundred yards or so to the pond. Like an Olympic athlete, Michael held the sack of puppies out in his extended arms and spun around three times before catapulting the yapping pillowcase a hundred feet into the jet black pond. Then suddenly, his precious cats scattered as a flash of brown fur dashed by them headed in the direction of the pond. Lupo leaped off the bank, flew ten feet into the water, and paddled furiously toward the sinking pillowcase. But it was too late. The yelping shepherd watched helplessly as the pillowcase disappeared below the surface of the water. The dog fruitlessly swam in circles, attempting to locate the litter. Exhausted, she swam to shore and shook the cold pond water from its fur. “Come here, Lupo,” Michael said, softly, the leash hidden behind his back. Lupo stood stationary and growled at her master’s mate, her sharp fangs exposed over her gums. Michael and the cats sped to the house at a dead run and slipped inside, moments before Lupo slammed into the screen door, intent on ripping her children’s killers with her strong yellow teeth. Michael shut the front door, quieting somewhat, the relentless barks, and growls of the dog. “Now what?” he asked the puzzled looking cats. “How do I get rid of her, Cassius?” He held the Persian close to his face, touching noses. “What am I to do now? I can’t leave her alive. Madge will never believe her precious Lupo would ever lose her puppies. What’s that? Do what? Yes, that’s brilliant. I’ll do that. Madge will think they all ran off.” Michael went to the hall closet and retrieved the video recorder from the top shelf. He hooked a cable from the recorder to the television set and pressed play. Framed in the screen were the five puppies playfully yapping at one another, with Lupo on constant guard just outside the view of the camera. Madge had wanted to record the litter on video in case she ever had children of her own to show the tape to. He turned the volume up on the TV as loud as it would go, and then quickly grabbed some rope from the garage. There he waited, rope in hand, hovering above the small pet door that led into the kitchen. The familiar cries of her puppies on the television were too strong for the shepherd to ignore and she rushed through the hinged flap in anticipation of a reunion. Michael lassoed the dog around the base of her neck and pulled tightly, knocking her to the terrazzo floor. He quickly slipped a muzzle on her and tightened the straps. She rolled around on the floor, slapping the muzzle on the tiles until she lay exhausted. He stared down at Cicero. “See,” he said to the cat, as it rubbed against his leg. He lifted the spent dog, carried her to the garage, and placed her in the trunk of the car. The three cats jumped into the passenger side door when Michael opened it. Then he placed Madge’s softball bat in the passenger seat and drove off toward the mountains. “How fitting,” he thought “to kill Madge’s ***** with her own softball bat.” The cats lay quietly in the backseat for the two hour drive over the mountains and into the desert. Michael waited until the main highway was empty of cars before turning down a small dirt road. He walked around the back of the car and placed the key into the trunk lock. The cats peered curiously out the back window. Michael saw them and said, “Watch this, my angels,” and held the bat over his head while he turned the key. Lupo leapt from the trunk, knocking Michael to the desert floor. The dog pounced on him, the muzzle hanging loosely on the side of her nose, and bit him hard on his shoe. He slapped at her with the bat until she released her hold, then stood and flailed at her, but she sidestepped the blow and bolted off into the desert night. “Good! Go ahead and run, you *****! The desert will kill you anyway. Go ahead. Run!” He threw the bat into the trunk and drove off toward his home… a home free of dogs. The next year went by quickly and uneventfully for Michael. Madge eventually accepted his story that Lupo and her litter ran off when he accidentally left the front door open. “God know where they went, Madge,” he said. “I looked for them for six straight days before you came back. Six straight days.” He was content. He tolerated Madge, but at least he and his angels were rid of the dogs. Yes, he was content… until the howling started. It began innocently one night, very late, while Michael, Madge, Cicero, Cassius and even Atticus lay sleeping. It was a loud monstrous howl that woke them all from sleep. The painful, morose wail seemed to penetrate every pore of their bodies. The cats scattered, frightened by the night monster, each cat finding refuge somewhere in the small tradesman two-story house. Madge rolled over in the bed and hugged Michael. “My God, Michael, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” “Nothing, nothing’s wrong. Go to sleep Madge. I’ll chase it off. Go to sleep.” But he did feel something was wrong. It was impossible, though, she was dead. It was a hundred miles from the desert, so it was impossible, and yet he felt uneasy. Just as he opened the front door, the howling stopped. He waited a few minutes, and then went back to bed, relieved by the silence. “What was it?” she asked. “I…I don’t know,” he replied. “A wolf or something, looking for garbage, I guess. Probably from the mountains. Go to sleep, he’s gone.” With his eyes half closed, and on the edge of sleep, he dreamt he heard the cry of a cat. When Madge stepped out onto the front porch on her way to work, she felt something soft under her tennis shoe. She looked down to see what she stepped on, and screamed. Michael dropped his spoon into the cereal bowl and ran to the front door. He first looked at the hysterical Madge, and then to where she pointed. He fell to his knees, held his head in his hand, and cried. Atticus, or what was left of him; lay dead at the foot of the door, the cat’s head covered with blood and nearly severed form the body, it’s entrails spread out, framing the skin and fur like a perverse abstract. “Atticus, who would do this to you, Atticus?” That night, Michael couldn’t sleep. He waited for the howling that never came. In half-hour intervals he’d look up at the alarm clock to check the time. Hours crept by, and still there was only silence. Was it gone? Was his precious Atticus enough? Would she leave them alone? She… he said she. Why did he think it was…? No, she’s dead. It wasn’t her; it was a wolf from the mountains like he told Madge, and now it had gone back to the mountains. Besides, Cassius and Cicero were safe. There was nothing to fear. As if to justify his thoughts, he finally drifted off to sleep. Two hours later he woke from an odd dream. He dreamt of a leaky faucet and the constant drip, drip, drip sound associated with it as it hit the bottom of the sink. The dream was so real he could almost feel the water on his face and pillow. He wiped his face, felt moisture on his hand, and opened his eyes to the morning light. He saw Madge’s eyes widen, and fill with fright. “Oh my God, Michael, you’re bleeding.” Michael, frightened by the alarm in her voice, stared at his hand and saw it was true, his face and hand were soaked in blood, The pillow, sheets, and his shirt were likewise, covered with his blood. But where was he injured? He poked and prodded his entire body, searching for the wound that wasn’t there. He suddenly felt sick from the fetid smell of the congealed blood and was about to rush to the bathroom, when he noticed Madge pointing to the ceiling. “My God, look,” she said, her hand shaking. Michael raised his head to see blood dripping from a soccer ball sized red blotch on the ceiling. “Oh my God!” he yelled, and ran up the staircase to the second floor guest room. “Cicero!” he cried, and rushed to the mutilated cat, its ripped body drained of the blood that had disappeared into the cracks of the hardwood floor. It was an hour before Madge could pry Cicero from Michael’s hands. He sat on the bloody floor for hours grieving the death of one of his closest friends. She was back, he knew it. She was back and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she killed all his cats. He wasn’t going to let her have Cassius. That evening he retrieved the softball bat, grabbed a large knife from the kitchen, and waited in a chair by the front door. Only the screen door separated him from the killer dog, but he would kill it before it had Cassius. At two in the morning, Madge took the knife and bat from Michael and helped him to bed. He didn’t resist, he was too fatigued to argue. Sleep came quickly, but it was all too short. Two hours later he woke when he heard a dull thump outside the bedroom window. He rolled out of bed and spread the drapes to peer outside. As he pressed his face close to the glass to focus, two close set eyes stared back. He jerked back from the glowing eyes and stumbled to the floor. Michael looked up to see devilish figure of Lupo growling and barking at him. Madge woke from the din. “What is it Michael?” she asked. “It’s the wolf again, Madge. You stay here, I’m going after it. You stay here! You understand?” She nodded, too frightened to answer. Michael grabbed the bat and flew out the front door in pursuit of the ghost dog. He could just see the silhouette of the mongrel in the moonlight as it raced toward the pond. Lupo turned and stood between Michael and the pond leaving her no escape. Michael lifted the bat to finally rid him of the ***** forever when he saw something large in Lupo’s mouth that froze him in mid blow. Cassius. Lupo had Cassius tightly in her jaws. The cat was alive, but struggling as Lupo clamped harder on the torso whenever it struggled. A pathetic cry emanated from deep in the cat’s throat, each time Lupo bit down. “Let her go Lupo. Please? Let her go.” Lupo growled and clamped tighter. “No! Stop it Lupo!” Michael slammed the bat into Lupo’s side. She howled in pain and sidestepped the next blow, without releasing Cassius. Before he could raise the bat to attack again, Lupo bit viciously into Cassius, slicing cleanly through the Persian’s neck. Lupo dropped the cat in front of Michael and backed off out of range of the bat. Cassius cried out a last time, then fell silent. “No!” Michael screamed, and slashed wildly at Lupo. Lupo crouched down, pricked its ears and growled, ready to attack. Michael, frightened by the sudden change in the dog backed away, then stopped when he heard more growls behind him. He turned and looked incredulously at the circle of dogs surrounding him. Five German shepherds readied for attack. Lupo joined the circle, and as if triggered by her presence, the pack closed in tighter on their prey. Michael recognized one of the attackers, a dog of whitish-grey fur and piercing blue eyes. Seconds before the dog clamped down on his neck with her sharp teeth, he realized… Lupo’s puppies had survived. Copyright 2008 J. J. White |
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