Billy stood on the sidewalk across the street, laughing, and pointing at the dead dog in the middle of the road. My dog, Sam. Billy had just run over him with the truck his parents got him.
I stood on the sidewalk, looking at Sam’s mangled remains. He had broken bones everywhere, and his guts were coming out his mouth.
Billy glared at me, as he sang, “He’s looking over his dead dog rover, laying on the black asphalt! One leg’s broken, another’s just gone. I ran over Rover with my big damn truck!”
Dad sent me inside, before I could do anything, or say anything. “We’ll let the lawyers handle this.”
Like hell we would.
The next morning, I watched Billy get in his truck to go to work.
I knew he would put the key in the ignition, then put his foot on the brake, and turn the key to start the engine. And I watched his truck catch fire when he did. I watched him try to get out of the truck, as the fire spread quickly. I knew he couldn’t.
Billy had wanted war. “I’m gonna take care of that damn dog of yours!” he’d screamed at me.
I looked across the street, as his truck burned, with him in it. Have I mentioned how useful the Internet is? Amazing, what you can find on it. “I warned you not to hurt Sam. You would not listen. You should have listened.”
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 113. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.