I was thinking all day about how much I wanted to kill the dog. He's always back there fucking with my head. I just couldn't wait to get alone and kill him. My plans were to kill him gently. You know, a sympathetic murder. Just to put him and myself out of our misery just for a few hours until he resurrects. He always resurrects. Sometimes, it only takes minutes, and there he is again, bugging me.The hose was squirting nasty compressor smelling water out of my guns all day. The idea of killing him brought me the most joy. I came  home covered in grime and sweat with a thirty pack of beer, and there she was looking beautiful sitting on the steps in front of my building. She wanted to participate in the dogicide, and on top of it, she wanted me to kill her dog too. Not all women have a dog to be killed, but she most definitely had one, god bless her soul. After 15 beers and a shot of Dilaudid, she laid him to rest, but not in the way I had planned. She tore off his head and shat down his throat like an angry drill sergeant. It hurt me as much as it hurt him. She gave a new definition to "killing the dog". I hadn't intended for it to happen that way. For just a split second, I grew concerned that my dog would never return, but he's back, thank god.