What It’s Like to Kill Dogs
On homecoming, alienation, reentry, and belonging
The wooden sticks jammed through the fluorescent red meat reminded me of the broken figure. Staring at the skewers, I remembered the viscera waterfall where the dark-skinned body in a blue truck had his guts poured out over the driver’s side cushion. The right portion of his skull had been caved in and the air reeked of rotting meat dabbed with a few drops of a knock-off Calvin Klein cologne. Hovering over the body, I snapped a photo and left before the urge to empty the contents of my stomach took over.
Maybe I’ll stick with the broccoli.
Steam rose from silver pans filled with all manner of meat and fried vegetables. I picked up the skewer of red meat anyway and hesitantly put it on my plate. It had always been my favorite, after all. Then I circled once, twice, three times around the rectangle island of food, each time eyeing the million choices, picking up a random scoop of food here and there.
By the time I sat down at the table, most everyone else had finished eating, or was on their way back for seconds.
“Good god, Sledge. When did you become such a picky eater?”
I shrugged sheepishly, while my fraternity brother flashed a mouth full of pearly whites. A thinly veiled smile spread…
