Oops, there goes Chewy.

The loss of innocence.

It was a hot summer’s day in my childhood; heat rose in snaking tendrils from the battered old car at the front gate, the scent of burning leather from within wrapping itself around our nostril hairs. Tommy was sweating buckets underneath an optimistically tight t-shirt and a pair of light blue shorts: his sunglasses were flecked with perspiration and dirt, but he was too nervous to take them off and clean them.

With a hesitant tap on Tommy’s back, I motioned to the brick wall next to us, hot to the touch, and slung the air rifle over my shoulder. With a small scramble of small feet, we were sitting atop the wall like scrapyard cowboys.

“Can you see anyone?” whispered Tommy, his voice dry and raspy under the sun.

“Nuh-uh”

Turning to one side I slid down the wall and landed gracefully, rolling slightly too, to counter balance the fall: Tommy fell and collapsed in the dust. Sputtering and cursing under his breath, I repressed a small smile and started off into the scrapyard.

We liked to imagine we were epic adventurers: the stacks of cars and washing machines were ruined temples, crashed spaceships and dense jungle trees. With shouts and hollering, we would run through the murky shadows cast by the towers, throwing up dust and shooting invisible foes. After a day of play, we would sit down in our favourite spot �" the back of a pickup truck with a tarpaulin pulled over the top to protect us from the sun �" and take gulps of water and smoke half torn cigarettes I’d stolen from my Dad.

Tommy couldn’t smoke properly: he couldn’t take the smoke back and I’d chastise him and laugh when he came red-faced and coughing from behind a cloud of poorly inhaled smoke. It was on this particular day, mid cigarette, that we heard the shuffling and snuffling of a small, wheezy old dog pushing its nose through the tarpaulin.

We coaxed it in with a small piece of sausage from Tommy’s packed sandwiches and sat for a while, stroking the dog. We named it Chewy. It smelled awful, and its teeth were crumbling behind dry lips: it would sit panting, tongue half out, and the stink of its breath would drive us to the back of the truck.

When it was time to leave, and Tommy had finished the sandwiches, we hustled the dog out and entered back into the sun: it was later now and the light was failing, the shadows longer and the towers more frightening �" this was my favourite time of the day.

“Can I use the gun now?” begged Tommy, his small sweaty hands outstretched.

“Please?” I replied, a smug smile on my face.

“PUR-LEASE!” he asked.

I handed him the gun and made my way across the small clearing near the truck; turning the corner, we saw the dog laying in the shade.

“Look, a wild beast! Shoot it now!” I cried, pointing towards Chewy.

Tommy stopped, looking at me with desperation in his eyes. The hesitancy was all I needed to play with.

“Shoot it Tommy, quick!”

I could see the sadness in his face.

“Oh come on Tommy, you idiot �" it’s just a stupid dog!”

But he had lowered the rifle.

“CHICKEN, CHICKEN, CHICKEN”.

I snatched the rifle and Tommy covered his face with dusty hands. Training the sight on the dog, I let fly a small pellet and it struck the dog in the soft part between neck and body. It gave a whelp, stood and ran a short distance, before collapsing in the dust.

I turned to Tommy with a smile on my face, but his eyes were fixated on the collapsed body of the little old dog; he had bitten his lip so hard thick crimson blood had begun to trickle down his chin.

“I think… I think you killed it” he whimpered, pointing at the dog.

“Don’t be silly…” I muttered, walking towards the dog with a small pain in my stomach. I gave it a little nudge with my foot, but Chewy lay still.

I crouched to my knees and poked it in the stomach with the barrel of the rifle, but Chewy lay still.

I bent down closer, and leant my head against its stomach, ear pressed into its fur, the scent of its body almost causing me to gag �" but Chewy lay still.

I heard Tommy’s crying in the background and there was wetness on my cheeks: before I knew it, we were both running, the tears streaming behind us, leaving small wet circlets on the dry ground.

Reviews

[b.platte]

This started out to be an adorable story. It's well written and everything is perfectly described for the reader to see exactly what you want them to see. It turned out sad but meaningful and I loved every second of it. One part that had me chuckling in the beginning was your description of Tommy's "optimistically tight shirt". That was wonderful and you really got a feel for the characters in just that one line.

Great job!

[de_maruf]

fine

[Baby Ricochet]

In the Marine corps they teach you to aim your rifle at the target's head. That way you'll be certain you killed the enemy. So what's that got to do with this charming, well written little story? Never use a weapon on something living unless you're prepared to kill it.

[Harry Alston]

Aha, very true Baby, thanks for the comment :)

[KAOlmsted]

I actually saw this when you posted it...read it...and chose not to say...anything.

[Harry Alston]

Hahaha - I can't decipher your meaning...

[KAOlmsted]

You're a smart lad; I bet you can.

[quinfinn]

a deeply moving and disturbing story which has a lot of impact. it will deeply anger a lot of animal lovers to read this but i sense a great deal of personal regret and admire the brutal honesty of the piece...i get an overwhelming sensation that this story is not fictional, even in the abstract...it is too painfully obtuse to be fabricated. excellent storytelling.

[Harry Alston]

It is entirely fictional, but thank you - that is a good sign :)

[quinfinn]

then you have proved your storytelling finesse! well done!

[Marie]

This is just too sad a story; I'm sorry I read it. I guess boys have to learn, sometime, that guns really do kill...

[Harry Alston]

I'm going to take that as a positive, thanks for your comment Marie ;)