Dog House

He placed a butcher knife on top of the kitchen shelf wrapped in cloth so that the kids wouldn’t see. He prepared breakfast, summoned his children to the table and ate with his eyes transfixed on the knife. The kids remarked that he was not himself that day.

It did not take Bill too long to realize that all he wanted to do to appease his suffering was to blow their dogs’ heads off. These furry little beasts his children liked to call pets are demons, and they barked all afternoon in their garage threatening every stranger that passed along their house. He gave his children a lengthy sermon about selling the dogs or giving them away, but this only sent the children on a riot followed by a seven-day period of self-starvation that urged him to withdraw his plans. He would often dream about their deaths every night and in his sleep he drowned them and strangled them by their necks till the only sounds left aren’t throaty growls but little pathetic whimpers for help.

In the morning, with his sleep cut short, he’d awake from his dreams to be thrown back into his torturous reality: The dogs are barking outside. The children need food to eat. He’s about to be late for work. The dogs are barking outside. The bills need paying urgently. There’s a huge, gaping hole on the roof of their house. His wife is an adulterous hag. But seriously,

Someone had to kill those dogs.  It was the only thing he cared about. All that Bill waited for was perfect timing. He couldn’t massacre those dogs in front of the kids. He loved his children more than anything in the world. He had to wait until all of them are in school. 

Bill had four children. The eldest was named Andre – a stocky, eighteen year old adolescent whom Bill secretly caught smoking pot along with his classmates in the backyard. They played loud music that sent the dogs into a mad frenzy, and their mouths foamed with drool as they retaliated with even more noise. Bill didn’t do anything. But his eagerness to slay those dogs became stronger. Beth and Lilia, sixteen and fourteen, were born arch-enemies and every afternoon, the house would turn into a battlefield and something made of glass would have been smashed. The smash rattled the dogs and sent them into a musical cacophony of barks that pounded Bill’s eardrums. He’d sweep the broken shards of glass away and dispose them in the kitchen trash bin along with the broken mirrors, plates, antique jars, and picture frames - he’d keep the unframed pictures of him and his family in the drawer until he buys a new one.

The youngest was named Bianca, already six years old, who spoke in little phrases and hated people. She’d draw on the walls of the house with permanent marker and the latest art work had little imps and demons carrying pitchforks undergoing self-mutilation. She was an angel.

Every stormy night, Bianca would crawl into his father’s sheets and hug him until she fell asleep. Bill would give her a kiss on the forehead and sleep in bliss. Bianca was scared of thunder.

Bill worked in a wood factory as a dealer. He would spend all afternoon selling wood to people who could turn them into something better. Bill’s boss was an arrogant bastard who slept with his co-worker. He had long wanted to quit for his wages were not enough to settle the bills, and so he was void of even the little luxuries of life. The only thing his job offered him was survival and time away from home. He needed some time away from those dogs.

Anything but those dogs.

Every evening after work, he’d hurry home and take a much needed bath. He’d stare at himself in his bathroom mirror, and counted the lines that ran through his forehead and into a hairless patch of skin that crept to the back of his head. He ran his fingers to whatever was left of his hair, and counted all the gray strands till he reached the flaps of skin on his chin that are sagging and almost translucent. He would trap himself in a puzzle of mathematical misery that reminded him that his last days on earth are nearing, and that he could really not do anything about it.

Bill was pretty sure that he was going to die alone – and in his heart of hearts he wanted to take his wife along with him. He wanted to drag her in the fiery pits of hell till the lava scalded her skin and frizzled her hair. He wanted the little demons that Bianca drew to impale her and send her into eternal damnation. Bill’s wife was a bitch – just like the dogs he had in his garage. She had an affair with his brother, and he knew this for three years. Bill didn’t do anything. He waited for his wife to confess to him, to tell him that she still loved him and that she loved their children and that she was truly sorry. That time never came. Until one evening, in one of their very rare family dinners, after he decided that he finally had enough of his adulterous wife, he screamed at her over scrambled eggs and salted fish.

“Jessica,” he said. “Stop having an affair.”

The children stared at him with question marks written all over their faces. Jessica froze in shock. She couldn’t believe what her husband had said. She excused herself from the table and the children played with their food. Bill finished his eggs and tucked the children to sleep. The couple slept with a pillow between them.

The next day, Bill woke up alone with her wife’s body imprinted on the bed sheet beside him. He smoothed them away and found a three page letter from his wife, handwritten. Jessica always had bad handwriting. Bill needed his reading glasses to decipher the letter that began with “I’m sorry, I need some time alone,” and ended with “please take care of the children.” He kept the letter in the drawer along with the unframed pictures. He would wait for her wife to come back.

The dogs seemed restless that afternoon. Their barks seemed to be getting louder as though they have been rehearsing. In his troubled mind, he planned how his day would go. He will not go to work today. He had to finish something, something he had long wanted to do - something that was bothering him, pulling him to the edge, reeling him into madness and pushing him on the verge of insanity. He had to get rid of them today.

Bill grabbed his car keys and drove the children to school in his shabby, nearly dilapidated Toyota van. He procrastinated in buying a bottle of whisky on his way home. He doesn’t really drink at all, but occasions such as these require certain amounts of intoxication. He gave in to his desires, bought a bottle of alcohol, and scurried straight to his kitchen. He searched the back of his cupboard for a shot glass and found one covered with cobwebs and dust. He gave it a quick rinse, filled it with whisky up to the brim, and took a big swig. Instantly, Bill felt powerful.

He felt like picking his kids up from school and sending them home, punishing them and giving them a twelve-hour sermon. He felt like calling his wife and shouting at her, calling her every word equivalent to a whore in the dictionary, cursing her and telling her never to come back. He felt like giving his boss a punch on the face for fucking a co-worker and he finally felt like quitting his job. Bill felt like he could do anything. Bill felt like he could finally get rid of the dogs. He felt as though he was on top of the world.

He took another swig of whisky and unraveled the butcher knife wrapped in cloth. He held it in his hands with a tight fist, scurried straight to the garage and made his way inside with his steps somewhat faltering from intoxication. The dogs didn’t seem to be barking, as though they were hiding and knew that they were going to be killed. This gave Bill more strength to pursue his assassination. He hurriedly switched on the lights and was bemused by what he saw.

In the corner of his garage, newly-born pups were suckling on their mother’s breasts. The two other dogs were licking the pups clean, and they instantly started barking at Bill when they saw him approaching. He held his knife tighter, and sweat started trickling down his forehead. He edged closer and closer to the dogs and for awhile thought of killing the pups along with them. This was his time. This was his revenge. This was his salvation. The dogs started barking louder and louder,

Until Bill decided that he couldn’t do it.

Something kept him away from their deaths. He couldn’t get rid of them. He just couldn’t.

That afternoon, Bill’s garage was filled with the dogs’ barks and howls.  Their noise overwhelmed him, ticked him off, and made him insane. But in the noisy cacophony of that afternoon, Bill cut the dogs’ leashes with his knife and allowed them to roam around freely in his garage. He ran his fingers on the pups’ fur and cradled them in his arms till they fell fast asleep.

He picked up his children from school and the four of them had a lengthy discussion about who gets to sit in the passenger's seat. Dinner was the same. His bills are left unpaid. He will not quit his job. But that night, he tip-toed to his children’s rooms and gave them a goodnight kiss while they slept. And finally, he returned to his room and slept with his dreams not of the dogs but of his life.