Britain Bell • Fiction
How would I kill a dog you ask? Well to tell you that, I would have to tell you first about my best friend, let’s call her The Dash (may my writings never be used as “Exhibit A” in a murder trial). Now, you might be wondering, what does she (the one now protected by an absurdly thin alias) have to do with how I’d kill my neighbor’s dog? I’m getting there, just hang with me through a little backstory.
The Dash is a Southern Belle from a Yankee perspective, which I am. I grew up in the Southwest, and although that is geographically in the South, that does not make me a “Southerner” therefore I am a Yankee. We met at a job I held for a while back when I lived just north of the Florida state line; we weren’t friendly immediately but once we became friends it was like finding a long-lost sister. Even now, when we live 1600 miles apart, she’d be the one I’d call if I needed to make anything disappear, especially a dog.
The Dash lives her life dolled up like Barbie but in a town so small that it nearly disappears off a map of the great state of Georgia. In a sea of camouflage and swamp land, my best friend turns heads with her long-manicured nails, bright high-end makeup, and elaborately and obviously professionally dyed hair. Whether it’s Walmart, the gym, or work, the girl never looks like a hot mess. Her over the top style is partnered with a brilliant brain. She is highly successful and well paid as a member of upper management on an impossibly slimy corporate ladder that she has climbed with what appears to be effortless grace. Plus, a total package Susie Homemaker type; she’s married to a handsome officer of the law, who also happens to be her high school sweetheart and they have two beautiful children together. The Dash, as she will tell anyone willing to ask, is “Living the Dream.” My best friend is living the perfect southern storybook life in the eyes of most Yankees, and she’s not even thirty yet.
If you ask a Southerner though, there’s something off about that one. She’s too flashy, too confident, not a demur woman of the South at all. Her husband maybe a sheriff deputy, but the guys at the station all know he means it when he says he needs to ask his wife first before committing to an activity outside of work. See, The Dash oozes the fact that she wears the pants in the family; a concept that is not all together foreign in the South but is rarely done with the unapologetic tone that my best friend takes. The Dash does most things unapologetically, she’s too successful in her own eyes to be worried about people disliking her. Which is very un-Southern Belle of her.
Back to the dog. So, you say this dog of my neighbors has offended me. It doesn’t much matter what the offense is because The Dash hates all dogs and won’t need a reason. She finds dogs to be messy and needy and unable to take care of themselves, very unattractive traits in any living creature in her opinion. This may make you curious about her maternal instincts and whether Mr. Dash is being held in a less than storybook marriage against his will; I assure you everyone is fine and if not, they know better than to say otherwise. Mr. Dash once brought home a dog for the family, he also dug a hole for that dog when his wife instructed him to a few weeks later. The Dash is my weapon.
The dog lives next door to my home on the edges of the Albuquerque mesa and The Dash lives in the swamps of the Deep South; obviously there will need to be more steps to this plan. I must kidnap the offensive beast first. How? I contemplate this with you; maybe the offense was important. Does it bite? Is it big? Will the owner suspect me of retaliation? Let’s assume yes to all of the previous questions; it’s always best to prepare for the worst but hope for the best right? Right. So, with high stake stealth maneuvers required, this brings me to my mother’s house next.
In an old backpack, on the floor in the back of an overstuffed closet, on the nearside of my mother’s old adobe bedroom there is a collection of prescription pills. The ‘scripts are all filled within the last decade for people who, because of careful tearing of the labels by my mother, will remain nameless lest the bag become “Exhibit B” in a trial one day. My mother, who would be equally helpful whether the dog tore up a garden or bit her grandchildren, will likely just hand me a cocktail of pills to take home to the neighbor’s dog, no explanation needed.
“You’re not going to kill it are you?” will be all she inquires.
“No, I am going to take it to someone who will make it disappear.” My response will be adequate because my mother lives to watch mafia movies and raised me to believe that anything is morally acceptable as long as it doesn’t go against the family. Why not use the pills to kill the dog? Oh, I could never, that’s colder than either of us are comfortable being. It’s always better to have someone do your wet work for you, that’s what the movies taught me.
On the way home, I will need to stop at the store. Luckily between my mom’s house and mine there are plenty. The movies always make steak seem like the way to go when it comes to drugging a dog, but I happen to think that hotdogs are cheaper and easier to push pills into. So, I will wander through the produce section, past the dairy, and then through the expensively cut meats until I find a package of the cheap composite links. In this moment, while I am comparing labels and prices, my conscious will tug at me, begging me to splurge on the mongrel’s last meal, but I must ask you… does it really matter? Probably not, Cheap’o’Dogs it is.
So where are we? Ah yes, I’ve picked up some pills to put Fido to sleep and some hotdogs to hide them in. Heading home, I’ll map my timeline. Assuming my neighbor isn’t completely negligent when it comes to their pooch, I will need to find my golden moment of opportunity. In the morning, right before dawn, when most owners groggily release their pets for their morning duties out in the yard will be when I strike.
Upon my arrival in the driveway at my house I will first glare out of my tinted car windows at the neighbor’s house. They can’t see me do this of course, but villains always glare theatrically at some point, and I want to make sure I don’t forget that step. Once inside my home I will dice the franks into one-inch cylinders using the first digit of my ring figure to measure, an old trick my seamstress grandmother taught me.
“Sweetheart did you know that it is scientifically proven that the ring finger from tip to first knuckle on all adult humans is nearly a perfect inch long?” her sweet voice in my left ear as she taught me to sew with a seam allowance about 25 years ago.
If I slide the pills in now, they will be absorbed into the meat and soft by the time I launch them into the adjoining yard, so that’s what I will do. Once the pills are pocketed, I will throw them in a Ziplock labeled “DO NOT EAT” and leave them on the counter. Why you ask? I have children, all of which will claim to hate hotdogs until their bored and hungry, so safety first. Oh… why the counter. I assume as they come to room temperature the pills will break down more easily, science isn’t my thing, so this is just a guess really.
Next, it’s time to pull in a new accomplice to set the scene, with a third-generation mafia mentality as a mindset and a dire desire to learn to drive, my oldest child will take the impromptu road trip with me in trade for time logged behind the wheel.
“Hey, I need help taking that Hound to The Dash. You in?” I opened her door without knocking, but she’ll suppress her irritation at the act given the question I pose.
“I’m down. When?” perfectly collected and disconnected. Sometimes I wonder if I am parenting well or just creating little sociopaths.
“We will leave before the sun comes up, come on. We need to be seen getting ready to hit the road.” She pops off her bed like a soldier sent on mission and heads out of her room behind me. I hear her in the storage closet grabbing out the luggage.
“How many?” she’ll call after me as I head up the stairs.
“Two, or one big one. We won’t be gone long.” My yelled response will stir movements from my other kids’ rooms.
“Where ya headed Ma?” My next oldest will have left the boy scented funk of his teenage gamer hide out.
“The dog is going to The Dash to solve our problems. I need you to watch your brother and sister for a couple days.” He’ll nod, give me a fist bump, and retreat back to the sounds of both videos and music competing to be heard over the exasperated yells from his gaming buddies on his headset because he stepped away from a live match and they’re dying without him.
My oldest will bring me a half full large suitcase, wheeling it into the room then tossing it on my king-sized bed to unzip it again.
“I figured one was easier.” She’ll leave the room again without even a glance back, I assume for more stuff.
I will toss in a few sundresses and some flipflops, it’s eighty degrees there when it’s only forty-five here. I have no idea why I moved back once winter starts. My kid will come back with some basic toiletries.
“Can we just share those; we’re not going to be there long enough to take two showers each.” As cool as a cucumber she’ll shrug in agreeance and leave the room again. For a long minute I’ll stare at my expensive makeup collection. There was once when I put in as much effort as my best friend when it came to turning heads with a flawless look, but my time home in the desert has mellowed me back into being a bit of a wallflower. No longer famous in a small town, it seems better to blend inconspicuously living in a big city like ours. I’ll decide not to pack anything more than an eyebrow pencil and a tube of mascara.
Once the bag is packed, I’ll make sure to struggle with it in the driveway like it weighs the world. The neighbors need to witness me loading the car, it’s crucial. After several minutes in broad daylight of giving my best Atlas impression I will loudly call from inside the stuccoed front portal, which echoes horrendously, for my sons to come help me. Annoyed by being asked to leave their games, they will make a ruckus slamming first the metal front door and then the iron security screen on their way to my car. The oldest boy, who is nearly a foot taller than me despite being only fourteen, will then condescend to me in boisterous tones.
“Geez Ma, are you sure you can make a trip that far in such a weakened condition? That bag weighs nothing, you’re obviously too frail to leave.” His laugh can be heard at least three houses down, anyone listening or watching through the anonymity of the doorbell cameras knows I’m leaving town now, my alibi is set.
“Let’s head to bed to get some rest.” I’ll shut the hatch and head inside.
I’ll be up at three, the witching hour I was always told, and the car will be started and running by four. My neighbor will see my headlights, which I hope blind them slightly, when they let their dog out. When their sliding glass door shuts on the frigid November pre-dawn air, I will slide the gate lock open and place the final hotdog piece at its entrance. Although they may blend with the gravel in the dark, Sir Barks O’Lot will follow my wiener trail straight to the back hatch of my car. Inside my kid will sit with the jackpot of remaining dogs for him to eat once he jumps in. We will pull out of the drive and be long out of the neighborhood before the neighbors can be heard on my own house cameras calling for their pet.
The dog will be asleep before we hit the interstate, I’m not sure if it will be to his apparent laziness or if my mother’s moonlighting as a pharmacist will pay off, either way his slow steady snores and pungent and frequent farts will fill the car as we drive. Six hours on and six hours off, we will stop to refuel, and re-dose the dog as needed. We will make it to The Dash in a day, pulling into her backwoods property about the time the sun rises over the Atlantic Ocean a few miles as the crow flies from her house.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” She’ll meet me in the driveway, standing barefoot in the sand next to Mr. Dash’s patrol car.
“Plausible deniability.” I’ll look at her freshly manicured toes, the cantaloupe color apparent even in the twilight of dawn.
“Oh? Should I get B…” I’ll cut her off, grabbing her wrist before she could turn back towards the house.
“Mr. Dash doesn’t need to be involved yet.” She will eye me quizzically. “So, I had an issue with a dog back home…” Now she’ll smile, there is definitely something wrong with this one.
“I have to get the kids to school first, but I’ll handle it.” She will grin at me now like she would during any other visit under different circumstances, “Well bless y’all’s hearts, you must be exhausted! Come in, come in!” shewing us into her big farmhouse kitchen.
We will sit at the table while she makes us protein smoothies. She isn’t much into cooking unless she gets to use that big Kitchen aid mixer that I bought her as a housewarming gift a few years ago. Mr. Dash will wander out in his boxers, and predictably he will redden with shy alarm when he sees me and my daughter at his breakfast table. He will mumble an apology through a thick drawl as he darts back into the bedroom looking like he wishes it was a rock to crawl under instead. The Dash will smile after him as if he’s just the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.
“Aunty B!” there are my two little Dash replicas rushing simultaneously from their adjoining rooms. After lots of hugs and tickles and giggles they will follow their mom to get ready for school. My kid and I will sip smoothies in silence. Mr. Dash will return in uniform and inquire if he knew we were coming. He did not, I will assure him, blaming a family emergency for bringing us to his neck of the woods. He will express his condolences as he saunters from the house, none the wiser to my dishonesty. The Dash will follow behind him with perfectly dressed versions of the couple close behind her.
She will return a few minutes later looking relieved. “Mr. Dash is taking the kids to school on his way to work.” She will lean her whole body against the door to shut it before she steps further inside.
“I really appreciate you doing this, I just can’t deal with it anymore.” I will shrug. “You know I don’t have the follow through, but this is the only way.”
“You came to the right place. I have the land and no one out here will blink twice when they hear a shot ring out. Deer season is in full swing.” With a glint in her eye, she will head toward her Michael Kors bag on the kitchen counter. Reaching inside she will pull out something small and Tiffany blue. Even though the woman has been a black belt in Karate since high school, she never goes anywhere without her handbag handgun.
“I can dig the hole.” I’ll offer already knowing what her response will be. Part of her really enjoys making her husband nervous about what she is capable of. Telling him to dig a hole for a dead dog (that mysteriously showed up) that she (with obviously little to no provocation) needed to shoot, is just the thing to keep Mr. Dash on his toes.
“Nah, it’s good for him to prove how much he’s willing to do for me; stay here.” With a wink of her sky-blue eye and a flash of a flawless smile provided by years of top-tier orthodontics she will be out the door and headed to the car.
The glass panes in her back door will provide me with more view than I need or want. At this point I will turn my back as she leads the dog from my car. I will finish my smoothy and grab the toiletry bag I will have had brought in with me earlier.
“I call first shower.” I’ll say over my shoulder to my kid.
“I’m coming too.” Her eyes will be wide; she’s not a sociopath, she’ll hate this as much as I do. ‘It is what it is’ is a hard motto to live by at any age, especially sixteen, she makes me proud.
She’ll sit on the bathroom floor playing on her phone while I wash 24 hours in a car off my body. Like a well-trained butler she will hand me my towel right as I turn the water off like she always does when she hangs out with me while I shower.
“You good?” I’ll ask as I wrap myself up in it.
She’ll shrug nonchalantly as the back door slams.
“Did you hear it?” I’ll ask a bit confused.
“Not over the shower, why do you think I’m in here?” So much teen sass. “Get out, it’s my turn and I am going to freak if you didn’t leave any hot water.”
“Did she kick you out in nothing but a towel?” The Dash will laugh as I return to the kitchen.
“Yeah, is it done?” I’ll watch as she washes her hands quickly in the sink. A laugh and a nod will be my only reply.
The kid and I will head home that night, after Mr. Dash buries that “stray” that “appeared threatening” on the back side of their acreage. We will arrive back on our street to neon flyers on every light pole but no questions. Our pooch problem solved and no one the wiser.
Leonardo Magazine 