The Writers' Circle

Hi,heres a short story I've been working on recently.Please don't read it if you are easily upset,particularly about pets dying.The last thing I want is to offend anybody.


Sheba

Our dog died. It was a tragic day. Selfishly ,I was bitter . My twin brother was getting all the sympathy. They , the rest of my family had always made out that the dog was his. Her name was Sheba. She was already called Sheba when we got her otherwise she would have been given a much more original name, but she only answered to Sheba and that was that.


She was a lovely dog, a Labrador, Collie cross, biggish and browny black with floppy ears that looked as though they had been crimped. We'd had her for fifteen years . I'd taken her for as many walks as my brother. But he doted over her in an embarrassing way, often in public. I imagine  that's why people  assumed the dog was his. He would sometimes tumble over with her and wrestle with her in the grass which wasn't cool, and get her to chew his arm affectionately. She was more a 'Muttley' than a 'Scooby Doo' You could scold her if she did something wrong, for instance steal a biscuit, but she would only take so much and her lips would curl showing her great white teeth and you would know to back off.

My twin, " Dod" as he is called (which in Scotland is short for George,) took Sheba to the vets one day and came back on his own .His eyes were red and baggy with tears. Sheba had been put to sleep. Her kidneys  had failed her. It was all they could do.

It hit Dod harder than me. I kind of guessed that she was on the way out. Only two days before I had eaten a whole pie a few feet away from her and she hadn't even looked or sniffed in my direction. Dod, on the other hand had seemed completely unaware of the inevitable.

Despite the fact I was secretly miffed about the attention and sympathy Dod was getting I did feel a little sorry for him. We were born twenty minutes apart and I'm the oldest. Sometimes I think that twenty minutes makes all the difference. He always seems just that little bit less grown up. He also swears too much which I don't think is very smart.

It was when our Italian mother had prompted me by saying:

" Justa look ata heem. So sad .You must shpeeka to you brotha ,"- that I decided to have a frank talk with him. His bubbling was beginning to get on my nerves anyway.

 I suggested that we both needed some kind of closure from poor Sheba's demise and that maybe we should bury her somewhere. He agreed.

I called the vets to make sure Sheba hadn't been incinerated, luckily she hadn't, then sent Dod to pick up the corpse. I would be waiting at our chosen location with a spade and the hole dug out ready.

Our chosen location? A bit of wild land at the back of the golf course. A popular natural playground for us and Sheba. We had to be fairly secretive about our little funeral. The land belonged to the local Council and we surmised that there was probably a bye law forbidding the burial of dogs on their property.

The exact spot was a little clearing between two hawthorn trees. The quickest way to get to it  was by climbing a high  wall. It was a about half a mile from our house, a mile or so from the vets. Dod would have to carry Sheba all that way. I thought he'd have the common sense to use a wheelbarrow  or something but I was wrong, twenty minutes difference you see.

It didn't take long for me to get there .Shiftily I threw the spade over the wall, climbed over myself, retrieved my spade from a forest of stinging nettles and got to work. 

It was hard going. The soil was stony and there were lots 
of roots to slice through. Eventually there was a Sheba-sized hole and a hill of earth to fill it.

Dod arrived quite a bit later. I became aware of this when I heard him huffing and puffing behind the wall. I got a bit of a shock when I saw a strange opaque shape appear slowly over the top of the wall. It made a strange sound like plastic against stone. Then it lolled over and landed with a dull thud at my feet . 

I looked down surprised then back up to see Dod's hands then his head come into view. His face was purple. I realised what I'd just seen was a body bag.

" You could've fuckin' helped me." spat Dod furiously. As he jumped down

" I didn't hear you," I lied.

Dod looked too exhausted to finish off the job so letting him get his breath back I rolled up my sleeves and set to pulling the bag over towards the hole I had dug. I didn't realise a dead dog could be so heavy. A dead weight I suppose.

I was just about to roll the bag into the pit when George walked over and put his hand on my arm.

" Wait," he said," I just want to see her, one last time, just to say goodbye."

" Ok then," I complied. It was a reasonable request. He leant over and cradling the bag with one arm unzipped it with the other. I watched his face change from pity to rage.

" It's a fuckin' Alsatian !" he blurted throwing the bag down. He'd got the wrong dog.

" Wait a minute. Where are you going ?" I shouted. Dod, with the renewed energy of anger was already rescaling the wall again .

" I'm going back to get Sheba."

"But wait, what about..?" he was gone.

I was left standing next to the fresh grave with the dead Alsatian lying at my feet. It's lifeless head poking out of the bag ,big grey tongue hanging out to the side.

Anticipating that Dod would be some time. I decided I would bury the Alsatian then dig another grave for Sheba. At least she would have company.

Again I dragged the bagged canine cadaver over and rolled it into it's new place of rest. This dog was a bit bigger than Sheba and didn't quite fit into the hole. Well I couldn't be bothered lifting it out and making the excavation bigger. Too much like hard work, besides I had another hole to dig too. So I decided on a quick fix approach.

With all my weight I jumped and jumped on the body squashing it neatly into the prepared shape. I was wearing my chunkiest, steel toe capped work boots, ideal for the task. It took a few jumps and the cracking, crunching sound of the larger bones breaking made me feel uneasy. I got on with it. 

In time I had the job done and was just patting the soil flat and firm and level with the back of my spade -not without a feeling of proud accomplishment - when I was startled by the sound of a car pulling up quickly and then it's horn. Three loud  evenly spaced 'peeps' from the road behind the wall.

I froze for a few seconds then was relieved to hear Dod's voice calling me from the same direction. I climbed the wall and peered over.

Dod had Sheba in a bag, in his arms. A middle aged man was with him standing beside an expensive looking car, the boot still open. Just as I recognised him to be the vet he looked up at me.

" Sorry, sorry it was my mistake."
He said nervously.
" I,.. I hope I haven't caused too much upset. So I thought I'd give your brother here a lift."

" That's ok ," I said reassuringly.

" Thanks for giving him a lift."

Dod nodded to the man in acknowledgement.

" Oh and just one other thing," the vet said looking a little flustered.

" The Alsatian, em, could I have it back ? You see the owner wanted me to do an autopsy."