I killed my dog and ate it.
Nothing to apologize about.
He was old and blind. His days were numbered. I might have done him a favor.
A beagle with the cutest face. Quite the looker. Stole a private place in my heart the first time we met. Couldn’t think of another.
I could have buried him. But then, he’d be someone else’s. Those bugs and bacteria take over like it’s their birth right or some personal vendetta.
Tobby wasn’t for sharing. He was mine and Juliet’s. She died two years ago.
No, I didn’t eat her.
More her choice than mine. A proper burial with lots of flowers and violin music. That was her last wish.
I honored it.
But Tobby didn’t have any special requests. He was open to anything. And after much thought, I went to the store and bought lots of barbeque sauce. Five bottles, ranch flavor.
It would mask his doggy taste.
One Sunday morning, I took Tobby out to the woodshed and knocked him out with some chloroform.
A single bullet to the head did the job. He felt nothing.
I could never make him suffer.
Then came the difficult part. Cutting him into pieces. Believe me, several bottles of rum came to my rescue. I wonder if butchers work drunk. Makes the job easier.
Ziploc bags and a freezer became Tobby’s temporary resting place. I would have to go slow in the beginning. My culinary skills weren’t bad but limited. I could sauté, deep fry, and roast. What else was needed?
I gagged, choked, and cried tears of desperation. But Tobby would not be taken from me. He would become a part of me, merging with fat and muscle. I felt him alive inside me.
It was a glorious feeling.
The day I was having the last of him, my sister dropped by.
I don’t know if it was Tobby’s leg on my plate, his skin on my head, or his bones around my neck that triggered her hysteria. But she kept screaming till the police arrived.
They took me. Thank goodness, my dearest Tobby came with me.