Now that the first of the house chores were done, I had to do something about my car and the bloody clothes that still sat in the guest room. The newspapers had gotten stuck to the trunk because of the blood drying up, but I managed to tear it all out and pile it on the driveway, a few paces away from my car. Then I brought down the clothes, wondering where I had left my coat until I remembered it was buried with the dog. Not that it mattered. I piled the clothes on top of the newspapers and took out a matchbox from my pocket. It took a while to start, but once it got going, the fire consumed it all, paper and fabric burning slowly as the night arrived. After, I doused the flames with the hose and threw the remains in a garbage bag.
I took the tools back upstairs to the storage room, and once there I looked for some corrosive liquid that could get the mess off my trunk.
It was past midnight when I finished scrubbing, but all the blood was gone. My hands burnt with the chemical traces left on them. I was in a better mood, and hungry. I took the suitcase out of the back seat and brought it upstairs. Sore and aching, I wondered if this job would help me get in better shape.
My dinner consisted of more toaster waffles, which made me decide that I would have to make a trip to the grocery store. I laid in bed, making a list in my phone of stuff I would buy the next day, when I suddenly remembered the picture of the corpse that I took the night before. It was more gruesome than I remembered, for when I opened it I backed away, startled. I opened the internet browser and I typed “wild brown dog”. One of the images looked promising and led me to a website that listed species of wild dog. Definitely not an arctic fox or a cape wolf. Coyote, maybe. I tapped the link and the picture that came up bore a striking resemblance to the animal I had killed.
I had hit a coyote.
“Also known as prairie wolf, coyotes populate North and Central America, all the way from Canada to the southern Mexican border. Usually regarded as a solitary creature, its howl is a mournful cry used to look for a mate in the wilderness. Packs of coyotes are a rare sight, but not at all uncommon”. Other information seemed less useful, like the length and weight of the animal, which didn’t match what I remembered of the dead one under the palm tree.
I put the phone away and shook my head. I imagined it out for the night, hunting for food, scavenging. Suddenly the grassland stopped, plants turned to dirt, dirt turned to rock. Rock that was strange, compact, straight, unlike other rocks. Rock that was made. It sniffed the air, and then it got showered with light. That light stole away its wits, its reaction time slowed down and then came the impact, blunt and unforgiving. Death took it and it didn’t know, and while it lay broken and sprawled on the ground, a lesser creature came and took it away and buried it under a palm tree.
It was all so clear, I couldn’t stop picturing it. So much for letting go.
Another headache crept up on me, and I had to stand up and walk around to clear my head. I drank water, closed my eyes, rubbed my temples, until at last it went away. I thought I heard something move outside of the room; the wind, most likely. I deleted the picture from my phone. Then I messaged my parents good night, and Mr. Sierra to let him know all was fine. I got a thumbs up back on both ends.
Maybe with sleep the headache would go away.
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