What's for Dinner

Photo by Diego Arenas de Rodrigo on Unsplash

Not the breakfast sausages. Those are too thin and long. The mini dinner sausages, the ones that get wrapped up in puffy dough and become pigs in a blanket at church gatherings. Those are perfect. They have to be cooked and cooled down a bit, and left, they can’t be blanketed or it will be too tempting to bite into them. No, they need to be popped into the mouth just before inhaling. They lodge beautifully in the throat, blocking the windpipe, and they will stay there unless someone applies the Heimlich maneuver.

The perfect accidental death. You wouldn’t want to use this approach too often, though. People might get suspicious. No one needs an arsenal of devious methods at one’s disposal, and one needs to find a way to avoid being on the scene at the time.

Mister V looks up at me, taking it all in. He licks his paws and leaves his pink tongue out as if waiting for my next word. His tail flips up and then makes a side-to-side sweep, indicating his attention span is near expiration. I toss the offending sausage onto the table and he jumps up to retrieve it. I assure him that I will be done shortly as I stitch up the chest, trying to give the Y-shaped incision a formal look. Mister V motions for the bowl beside the body but I push him away with my arm. That’s not for you, I tell him.

After zipping the body bag and securing the body in one of the unoccupied coolers, I take the bowl and empty the contents in a clear plastic bag. Mister V watches me closely, hoping I will forget he is there while I wash down the table and my tools. Into the sterilization bath they go, and I am ready to leave. I snatch the bag from within the reach of my feline thief and slip it into my leather bag on my desk. He wastes no time joining me, rubbing his back between my legs before leaping onto the desktop.

I prefer to write my report by hand. It takes longer but it makes it more personal. My signature seals the deal, and we walk out, leather bag in hand.

The family will be pleased. He looks thinner, they will say. The undertaker will take credit for doing such a good job, and everyone will be happy. As happy as miserable mourners can be, that is.

Mister V mews and paws at the bag in the car. It isn’t a healthy treat for a cat, but Mister V is up in years, and it hasn’t caused him any trouble before. After all, he likes bacon. A little rice and it will be a real treat. Greasy but good. Yum.

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