January 8th, 2003

one single bullet

I had gone duck hunting with some friends. Afterwards, I was at home alone; mrrranda was at work. We had four cats in our apartment.

I was going to make duck's blood soup. I needed to kill one of the cats to make the soup. I chose Mr. Friendly. I coaxed him over to me and then shot him under the chin with a pearl-handled derringer.

He didn't die immediately. He walked over and slumped down in a corner and looked at me with sad, sleepy eyes.

I called mrrranda at work and started crying. I had to kill Mr. Friendly. I had to.

Then I woke up. The alarm was blaring. I looked around. Mr. Friendly present and accounted for. I immediately gave him a treat.

On my walk to work, in Argo Park, there was a dead duck in the snow. Its neck was bloody and broken. Its chest was torn open and entrails pulled out.
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