I was barely awake at this hour, standing barefoot in the kitchen, trying to think of how to make coffee. Of course I know how to make coffee Ė itís just hard in the mornings to get my brain going. I stand there and stare at things.
Sometimes things stare back.
The dogs. I let them out.
There is approximately half of a teaspoon of coffee left in the can, and I
am really pissed off about it. Wouldnít you be? If you use the coffee up,
it is your obligation to open up another can. What if your fucking wife
would like a cup? Duhh. Like thatísí never happened.
Something changes in the air. The dogs are at it. Thereís a saying among pit lovers, ďNever trust a pit bull not to fight.Ē No matter how sweet and loving they may be to you, theyíve still got that aggressiveness bred into them. I hear Basher yelp and I kinda think ĎKick his ass Bebeí. Iím just joking to myself, you know, just because Basher is Hankís dog, and my dog is tougher. I still love Basher.
Iíve just gotten the coffee open when I hear the sound. This is real. It sounds like the dinosaurs in one of those old fifties movies. I drop the can from my hands and it fans out in brown waves across the linoleum.
Basher is hurt bad, heís bleeding and snapping wildly at the air, trying
to get a piece of Bebe but failing. Jesus. Bebe is killing him. I canít
let this happen. This is Hankís dog. Bebe has sunk her teeth into Bashers
chest and has ripped a red gash into him. Red meat.
I am vaguely aware that Gwendolyn has wandered outside, and she is leaning against the screen door, watching with her mouth agape as I move closer, and this time with eyes wide open put a bullet into the back of Bebeís head.
And I swear unto Jesus Christ, before she died, she looked up at me with those big orange eyes and sent me love.
© 2003, Mark Hoback