I smell his cigarette smoke, hear his wheezing before the door to my room opens. There’s no squeak, so I know that little green air tank he drags around is sitting next to his chair in living room. I can hear some right-wing talking head coming for the TV down the hall.

“Put that goddamn book down and go take care of him,” he slurs.

I put the book on my desk, taking care to mark my page. I turn to look at him. He’s holding our varmint rifle, a smoldering grit hanging from his blue tainted lip, smoke swirling up around his gaunt weathered leather face. I say nothing. I hold my face and eyes blank and flat like carboard.

“Be a man for fucks sake. Go put him out of his misery. One between his eyes. Then dig a grave if he means that much to you.” I take the rifle from him, say nothing, and head out back.

Jet is laying on his side on pile of fallen leaves. His tawny coat blends into the yellow and reds surrounding him, as if the earth has already begun to reclaim him. He hears and smells me looking in my general direction with milky, cataracted eyes. His tail wags, he stands, and shuffles to greet me. He leans against my leg, all his weight now, and I rub his head. I know that old bastard is right. The blindness is new, but his tumors and arthritis…

“Jesus Christ! Just shoot him. Do I have to do everything?”

I take two steps back, lever a round in the chamber, put the barrel to Jet’s forehead.

“Goodbye buddy,” I say, voice cracking, then squeeze.

There is no sound beside the boom and it’s over and it’s merciful.

“Was that so damn hard?” he says from behind me.

I turn and we lock eyes. “No,” I say.  Then I jack another round, already resigned to the digging ahead.

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JD Clapp writes in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Wrong Turn Literary, The Milk House, The Whisky Blot, and several others. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition. This story was previously published in Bristol Noir.

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Photo courtesy Pixabay