Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: neutering

The Rabid Dogs #5 – Who’s the Coward Now?

He fell asleep with his face on a pillow in the middle of the room, white down feathers are everywhere. I’m at the bottom of the stairs with his bowl of water and my perpetual white flag. I brought a pair of shears.

I could grab hold of his teeth. I could fix him, and he would feel a surge of testosterone, the last his body could muster, and he would punish me with his last furious bites.

In the end I bite my tongue until I can taste the rust of those shears, and I go back to bed.

The Rabid Dogs #2 – Shepard Tone

She lies.

He bites me and draws blood. She becomes furious. She says this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Though she feels more like a mule.

She says the fixer-men will come tomorrow, all hazmat suits and goggles, and they will restrain him. It will be a quick procedure, painless, she says.

She has this way of always taking it to the next level, without moving at all. It’s this ever-escalating false pitch that always sounds like it goes up however many times you hear it.

Yes, for serious, for real: tomorrow we will get him fixed.

The Rabid Dogs #1 – Tomorrow We Will Get Him Fixed

There is a rabid dog living in the basement; tomorrow we will get him fixed. She says so week after week, picking up vase after broken vase. Tomorrow we will get him fixed, and he will stop biting me, and we can take him outside. It will be good for him. She speaks like that, like living terrified of the Cujo under our house is just a minor nuisance. We soliloquize; dogs have good hearing, don’t they? I wouldn’t know, I am just a mouse. I feel the vibrations in the floorboards. Tomorrow’s the day we will get him fixed.


We are starting to regret having him fixed. Sure, it’s a lot calmer round here, and it’s easier to sleep. And I can’t begin to tell you how nice it is to have him calm like this, he doesn’t break anything anymore. We can use the fine china. But he hasn’t got a raise in three years. He always carries the same harried look after work, and sometimes at night I find him staring at the wall, as if projecting an image onto it. I don’t disturb him then, but I bet if I did he wouldn’t even notice me.