He assumed the sudden jolt was just the shoddy transmission acting up again. The dead dog that greeted him as he stepped onto the driveway begged to differ.
      “Oh shit.” muttered the driver, resisting the urge to chuck his bumper for dents. He was raised better than that. The passing (an easier term than death) of an animal he caused deserved his priority.
      The driver took off his baseball cap. It was what people on tv did during solemn moments, and he hadn’t been to a funeral since his grandmother passed away a decade ago. His mother had taken his hat and Game Boy (which held far more interest to him than a boring corpse), claiming that the deceased would get up and drag him into the ground with her if he played around during the funeral. His mother had never laid a hand on him, but she was a master of esoteric threats. She had once told his aunt that beatings were for “parents without imagination”.
      “Oh shit.” repeated the driver with increased volume, as if more emphasis would placate the spirit of the read dead dog. It wasn’t the most eloquent eulogy, but at least he had left the Game Boy behind.
      The canine had a look of surprise frozen on its face, a crude joke of rigor mortis. The driver frowned at the sight with discomfort. It was certainly better than a look of fear or agony, but he felt like the universe was subtly mocking him. He had been raised to believe in a caring god, not a cruel prankster (Job aside). The cartoon expression on his victim’s face didn’t fit very well with this.
      “Ryan isn’t going to like this.” muttered the driver, shaking his head and instinctively clutching his hat with both hands. He had expected the day to go well. Explaining a dead Doberman to his best friend hadn’t been on the agenda.
      He tried to tear himself from the spot, but found himself trapped in the moment. It was just him and a husk, but in his mind he might has well have been held in place by gunpoint. The driver was frozen in a Mexican standoff he had already won.
      The staredown continued until the Doberman won and the driver forced his vision downwards. He spent the next few seconds pretending his feet were the most interesting sight for miles. Once again, the dead dog disagreed with him.
      With the foot-staring stratagem firmly in place, the driver began the long walk to Ryan’s front door. His lowered gaze observed cracked blacktop, followed by unkempt grass, which was followed in turn by fresh white concrete. His rampage continued with the accidental crushing of a grasshopper, an incident he felt considerably less guilt over.
      As he extended his right arm to lightly press the doorbell, the driver clutched his Yankees cap to his chest with his left hand. Stray beads of sweat threatened to obscure his vision for several tense seconds. Just as he was about to turn around and sprint to his car, the doorknob turned. Ryan emerged from the white wooden door, cell phone in hand. The driver caught a glimmer of a game of Tetris off of the screen.
      “’Sup Jay?” said Ryan with a yawn, scratching his head with his free hand. It was no secret that his waking hours began at noon.
      Jay froze. He hadn’t thought of what to say at this moment. Telling Ryan the news the wrong way could leave him friendless.
      “There’s a problem. On the way in I…hit your dog. I’m sorry. I’d take it back if I could, but he’s gone.”
      “Oh, Lemmie? That sucks.” responded Ryan without looking up from the screen.
      Jay stood and stared as Ryan continued his game. As he waited for a reaction, Ryan’s brow furrowed with concentration. He rarely made it this far in the game.
      The telltale sound of defeat rang out from the phone, and Ryan returned it to his pocket. “You coming in?”
      “Don’t you have anything to say?”
      Ryan blinked in momentary confusion, until the glint of recognition came to his eyes.
      “Oh! Sorry for ignoring you just now, I was on a roll.”
      “I. Killed. Your. Dog.”
      “Yeah, you said that already. Too bad. He had a good run.”
      A passing fly considered flying into Jay’s open mouth.
      “It’ll be a bitch to clean up though. You want a beer?”
      Jay closed his mouth and looked back at his victim. The more enterprising flies had already arrived.
      “Make it two.”
      The flies ate and the men drank. The flies enjoyed more peace of mind.

7/14/2010
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