The production of your radio programme was well underway when our joint interest, the dog, died. We hadn’t noticed until the smell preceded him like some noxious envoy. It must be said that his contented trot remained. His lustrous coat still elicited comment from passerby. His appetite was unchanged, still tended toward sardines on dry toast, toward rabbit confit. He remained, too, a card sharp and continued to frequent the opium dens and cafes that occupied our city’s small subterranean spaces. Or so we presumed; he was out and about most of the day and made vague discursive gestures regarding his whereabouts. Occasionally a beautiful woman would accompany him home and kiss the top of his head before departing.
Shortly after his death you grew increasingly despondent. There were problems plaguing your programme as well, but the dog’s sudden change brought on a tangible madness. At first it was relatively harmless – you absentmindedly eating everything in the house over the course of a few unmediated hours. However, the next day I returned to find you crawling about on the floor, hidden by a massive tapestry. You’d also unpotted the plants.
So now I’m writing you this letter. We no longer speak, though we pass each other in hallways and corridors. Occasionally you’ll growl at me or spit at the dog, an impotent riposte. Perhaps one day you’ll come to and this letter will help you better understand what destruction you’d wrought. Perhaps you’ll think of us and our dead dog and how happy we once were. Even now I look at our life in ruins and can’t keep from smiling…
…except now you’re loping this direction brandishing a candelabra, so I must sign this note
Nick LB Mack is a carpenter living in the western United States. His poetry and fiction has been published online and in print. He’s almost almost always writing.