A Murderer is a Murderer, But a Pet is Still Cute with Blood on its Lips.

Hello my fellow cynical people. If you are not cynical and don't have a heart of stone. First off you're strange for reading this and second of all you are a lucky bastard. But let us not dwell on such matters. I assume you wish to know why I have such a title.


It's a simple matter that could be conveyed in a paragraph or two but like most writers I will draw it all out very dramatically as if it is more than a blip on the cosmic radar of existence that continually bleeps on forever, eventually forgetting us as we fade into the universal darkness that is nothing.


A few months ago, my family got a new dog. First of all we were expecting a chocolate Labrador of around 6 months age. What we got was a Pater dale Terrier. So it wasn't even close in the end but both me and my mother fell in love with the cuteness of the thing, he was very shy and huddled close to me as we drove home. Which warmed my crumbled heart with the flames of dependency and ever lasting love which a dog gives its master. In retrospect I see I was dooped and deluded at the time.


While my father was not hating the idea of a new dog. No dog could replace our other dog Cassie. So Gordi -that is what we named him, after Gordon- was treated well by all and given the standard daily allowance of belly rubs .


Another thing my dad loves along with Cassie. Is his chickens, 4 of them in fact. Very lovely chickens that provided eggs that we would enjoy. Often enough my parents -on a sunny day- would sit out in the sun and watch the chickens just wander around they fenced off area of the garden. It gave my father a purpose he had seemed to loose when my older brother moved out and even more so when his mother died. He cared for the chickens so much he even got a cockerel with the intention to breed. Sadly Cliff had to be taken away when the neighbours began to complain.


Gordi too was fascinated by the chickens wandering in their home. Though it was for a much more malicious reason than my father's. One day we left the patio door open to let some air in and allow the dogs to bask in the sunny day. My mother was tending to household chores and my father was virtually falling asleep in his arm chair when we heard the cries. My father instantly sprung out of his chair and ran into the garden. It wasn't long until I was told one of the chickens had been killed.


My father was furious. Sitting in his arm chair staring at the TV which was currently off. What was running through his mind I knew not. Though the rest of the chickens remained unharmed thus much of the rage subsided quickly.


Only a month after had Gordi killed another. 2 remained.


As you can see where this is going I won't beat too much around the bush. On the final day of the remaining chickens I was sat in the living room. My parents were at work and I was enjoying the empty house as much as I could. Which is never very much. I had decided to watch a film. I foolishly left the patio door open to let air in on the hot summer's day. Not 30 minutes into the film did I begin to hear cries. It took a moment to register what was going on but when I realised I ran out into the garden to see one chicken laying lifeless and another in Gordi's bloodied jaws. He dropped the chicken as soon as he heard me coming and tried to dash for it. I grabbed him and with a heave I threw him across the garden in rage.


The last chicken was dying. Its eyes were open but its neck was broken. It was clinging to life with nothing but crushed bones and slow breathes. I could do nothing but sit with it and not only watch but feel it die in my hands. Knowing full well what might have happened to Gordi if all the chickens died. I pleaded for it to live but to no avail. The chicken convulsed and gave a fleeting cry before finally stopping its breathing and movement. I lay it on the ground as my father finally came into the garden. His face turned from the smile of seeing his son and returning home to rest, to the dismay of seeing his last two precious chickens dead and me sitting nearby. He knew already who had done this. I said nothing. I will not lie to my readers, Gordi was beaten. But Terriers are naturally tough and resistant dogs so he took the few strikes and then took his chance to hide.


I helped my father dispose of the chickens and then sat by Gordi to defend him in case my father continued his rage. It was more for my father's sake than his. I did not want my dad to live with the fact that he killed a living thing in front of his son. So Gordi was defended and lives to this day.


I expected these were his last days in our house. But alas, my mother had the deciding vote and he stayed. Neither my father or myself wants him in the house. So why should he?
Whether he is my mother's pet or not, he killed 4 of my father's pets. There needs to some repercussions and compensation I think.


Though I find it hard to have any emotional attachment to anyone or anything but my father. I liked the chickens more so I liked that they made my father happier. Yet Gordi who makes no one but my mother -who mind you does not walk or feed him. That is left to me and my father- happy is still in this house. Every time I look at him I see his lips bloodied and crimson on his teeth. I am not saying he too should be dead, just not in this house.


- Matt
I don't hate life.
I just hate those that take it and don't loose anything.