Injuries

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

I would have agreed a year ago. Chad and I brought her home from the shelter, a fluffy little thing to love, easier than a child, cheaper. We bought organic dog food. We stocked up on squeaky toys. We let her sleep in our bed, curled up on our feet.

Shit all over the carpet, shredded cushions, toppled trash cans--these I dealt with as best I could. Chad rarely saw any of it--I cleaned the messes before he got home from work--and he loved his new canine companion so much that he easily brushed off my complaints. "Once I get that raise, I'll take her to training lessons," he'd promise, rubbing her pink belly. He never followed through, of course. 

I reach down to her, hold my bandaged hand in front of her face, remind her of her actions.

It had been too long, so I pulled Chad close to me. I kissed him, and we fell to the bed. My hand twisted through his hair, but it didn't feel good. It hurt, sharp, and I realized she had bit me. Holes in my skin, blood in his hair, on the yellow sheets. "Little bitch!"

Chad scooped her up. "You just scared her, that's all." He wrapped her up in his arms, kissed her ears, pressed his nose to hers. 

That was last night. Today I led her down to the basement with treats, since she doesn't come when I call. I led her right to the crawl space. I tightened a muzzle around her nose and jaw. I tied her paws together. We don't store anything back here--I doubt Chad even knows about it. I'll say she ran away. I propped open the door while taking out the trash. Stupid mistake. We'll drive around searching for her, check the local shelters, put up flyers. 

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

"No regrets," I reply. I shut the door.