Small Animals - Flash Fic - C. A. Winter


Small Animals 

I’ve been thinking of killing small animals. A mouse. A cat. The neighbour’s chihuahua. Little thin tan body, black marble galaxy eyes and a jagged mouth that never shuts the fuck up. I picture myself over it, in their living room or laundry room. They’re asleep and I’m in their apartment with my hands firmly wrapped around the thing’s vibrating neck. Each breath, each heartbeat, I feel it between my fingers. And it’s barking, and I’m grinning and then I’m pushing its tiny triangular skull into the linoleum, the same Greywood linoleum I have in my unit, and it yips and gasps and its tiny little legs and feet come to a scurry then to a halt, and it is no more. I stand, and I wipe my furbally hands on my pants, and I leave through their door and walk swiftly into my own living space. There are no police called for a dead dog, there is no autopsy, there is no proof. One squirt, or two, of my Pinecone Bodyworks hand soap and all evidence and smell is washed away and I can finally sleep. And tomorrow I can sleep, and the next and the next. 
They might be upset for a while, and that’s a real factor to take into account. Their feelings, their needs, their grief. She, with the grey pompadour, may sob in the morning. It may be loud- or even louder- than the pup was before it passed away so suddenly, but then it’s all over. Good night, sweet dreams, toss it in the incinerator and keep it in a jar. The three or four grandkids will undoubtedly be upset that their little fuzzy friend is missing and all they have to look at is a blue and white porcelain object, but they too will get over it. They have each other and one of them will eventually break their parents and they’ll have a big black lab named Spot and it’ll be a fat lazy dog and nothing bad in the night will happen to it because it’s fat and lazy and doesn’t do much but be a three-dimensional rug. Spot will die of cancer. As will grandma and grandpa. And eventually them. So, mourning will be a real thing for them. This first instance might be good for them.
A month will pass. Less, even. A week. There will be no poop to clean. No food to buy or put out. No midnight trips to a tree or hydrant or the hideous Volkswagen on the corner. Eardrums might feel a tad… better… than before and what’s this? I don’t have to sweep as much? And what about the smell? Why am I not spraying deodorizing mist at noon and again at six? Oh, Miss Neighbour will be overjoyed to see the fruits of her labour paying off. All that housework, all that time spent cleaning and dusting and walking to shit, SAVED! It’s glorious, she’ll say, to all of her bingo buddies. Now me and Bill can sit for longer and not have to worry about anything- no stupid trips outside, Oh My Goodness, no trips outside in the winter. God, that dog, well, I was sad, you know? But now I’m wondering why didn’t we just put him down when we had the chance? If I only knew. If she only knew. 
My reasoning is sound, the stakes are low, and because it’s just next door, it’s a real temptation. But when I jiggled the handle, it was locked.
***

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