Unwelcome

The skittering as her nails scrabbled at the tiles on the front door hall: impotent in the face of his grip on her favourite leash.

The desperate eyes and face as she strained against a collar she could have slipped off her wasted neck; had her limbs moved that way. That is my last image of Honey.

Her frenzied bark in the background of the terrible phone call I took from traction was the last noise and the reason I vowed never to have another dog.

I’m going to kill the spoiled little Shitzon which pisses on my book collection.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid