—DON’T BOTHER KNOCKING

 

Sacrifice

 

My dog pulls me aside one afternoon and tells me we need to talk.

 

What’s up? I ask.

 

I’m not feeling too good, the pooch says.  I’ve been really sick for a long time.

 

I thought you seemed different, I say.

 

Yeah, but you never inquired.  You never made an effort.

 

Shit, I say, I’m sorry.  Work’s been a bitch lately.  My fucking boss hates me.

 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, my dog says.  You got problems, I get it.  But what I got is horrible, downright insidious.

 

Cancer?

 

Fuck if know.  All I do know, is it’s killing me and I don’t want to let it win.

 

Huh?

 

I’m saying, I want to win for once.  I’m saying, I want you to kill me before the disease does.

 

Are you nuts?

 

Maybe, but that’s beside the point.  The point is, will you do it?  Will you off me?

 

Off you?  Hell no. 

 

And why not?

 

Because you’re my dog, my pet, man’s best friend and all that.

 

Sheesh.  You are really some thong-wearing excuse for a man.  I ask you for one favor, one, and you buckle under some kind of contrived sentimentality.  

 

But is it really that bad?  I haven’t even taken you to the vet.

 

Exactly.  And now it’s too late.  I could go under before midnight.  The pain is horrendous.  Jackhammers everywhere.  I can’t even believe I have enough energy to talk to you.

 

This is just, just, so sudden.

 

For you maybe.  For me, I’ve been being skinned alive month after month after month.

 

That’s horrible.

 

I know!  Goddamnit, I know.  That’s why you have to do it.  Kill me.  Let me go out on top, having exercised agency for once.

 

It’s just…killing an animal, a dog, my dog.

 

Fucking, snap out of it.  Who are you all of a sudden, Mother Teresa?  You’re just lucky that boss who hates you hasn’t found out how much you’ve embezzled from the firm.

 

Shhh!  Keep your voice down.

 

One last time—Will you do it?  Because if you decline, I’m going to hang myself with that dental floss you never use.

 

Oh, God.

 

You don’t believe in God, remember?  And by the way, you might want to rethink that decision, considering there’s grace and forgiveness and all.

 

Am I that horrible?

 

Do you really want me to answer that? 

 

All right.  Okay.  Fuck it.  If you insist, I’ll kill you.

 

Excellent.  Let’s do this before your gonads shrink and end up swabbing your tonsils.

 

So crude!

 

 I dragged a shovel out into to the back yard, under the rotting hemlock you should probably have cut down sooner than later.

 

A shovel? 

 

Snow shovel.  Nice and flat.  Heavy.  Four or five good slams should do the trick.

 

Are you kidding?  Bludgeon you to death, with a snow shovel?

 

Do I look like I’m joking? my dog asks, baring yolk-yellow fangs.

 

All right.  Okay.

 

I open the sliding door and follow Sparky out into the yard where, true to his word, there sits a snow shovel I can’t remember ever owning.

 

Just do it quick, Sparky says.  No practice swings or anything like that.

 

You sound so casual.

 

My strategy is to not give death any credence.  Death already thinks it’s the shit.

 

So…

 

So, you grab that shovel and take my life and I win.  Fini.  End of the film.

 

You win?

 

Good grief, stop whimpering.  You sound like my brother, the one that got smothered when Mom rolled over asleep and didn’t notice the twitching hump under her.

 

Oh, God.

 

God again?  Stop, for God’s sake and just swing.

 

I do as my ailing dog has asked.  I hoist the shovel over my shoulders and bring it down in a mighty swoop, shutting my eyes in the process, anticipating the smashed melon sound of Sparky’s skull against metal, only there’s nothing.

 

When I look down, Sparky’s humping my leg, his tongue lolling like a manic tapeworm.

  

What the hell? I say.

 

You did it.

 

No, I didn’t.  You’re still alive.  You’re humping my leg.

 

Yeah, sorry, Sparky says, unlatching himself.  It’s sort of like a nervous tick, nothing sexual.  Remember, you had me spayed at six months.

 

I’m confused.

 

Nah, you’re not.  You’re the best.  You’d have killed me because I asked.

 

I’m still confused.

 

It was a test, dipshit.

 

Now I’m a dipshit?

 

Nah, not that either.  You’re the best.  I just wanted to be sure how much you cared.

 

And I, uh, passed your test?

 

With flying colors.

 

So, you’re not really lethally sick after all?

 

No, but you might be.  I mean, you’re the one talking to a dog.