When
the house gave nothing back to her return from school she suspected the worst,
so that even before she came across the note pinned to her bedroom door ache1
before she became ache1 knew that Judas was dead, or would be by the
time her parents returned.
Upon
a torn-open envelope in handwriting so rarely seen that moments passed in her
contemplation of each word’s actual constituent letters, their size and spread
and shape, until the realisation this was for her reading caught her up and in
such confirmed her fear.
“Sorry to tell you that Judas
(scored out) we’ve taken Judas to be put to sleep. He collapsed three times
this morning and now he will not be in any more pain. Just remember the good
times. Love, Dad and Mum” an evocation of the tiny and black puppy Judas, barely high as
kerbstones and tied to her infant fingers with string.
Leaving
the note where it was, she went in and drew the curtains against the street to
lie down upon her bed where she masturbated slowly using one hand, the other
comforting her upper stomach with E.T. secure in the crook of her arm.
When
her parents returned she heard her mother take the stairs at speed and shut
herself into the adjacent bedroom, feeding a private and silent grief. The rest
of the family spent the evening eating telephoned-for pizza and reminiscing
across the last thirteen years of Judas in the family.
cog: Oh he’s gorgeous. What kind of dog
is he?
Father:
Black. He’s a black dog.
and
laughing until their tears of laughter were simply tears.
