My Neighbor's Pet Project

I pass Henry’s house every Saturday on my grocery trip. After weathering Georgia’s heat for years, it looks like a birthday clown with Bell’s Palsy - half scary, half sad. I often see him perched on its dry-rotted steps. He likes to sit and watch the townsfolk pass by. He gives a warm ‘howdy’ to those he’s fond of. The others get silence and the same weathered face his house shows the other houses on the street.

Rounding the corner onto his street, I see Henry raise himself from his perch and give a warm “Howdy!” His ‘howdy’ and his smile are never far apart.

“Heyo, Henry. How are you today?” I wave to him and meet him at his mailbox, where we park our conversations and pleasantries. It’s a fine place to idle and chat. But a spring is in his step today.

Boy, he’s excited. I wonder if he found another stray.

“Oh, I can’t complain. Seein’ as I got myself a new puppy,” he says.

Ah, thought so.

Henry may not like everyone, but he’s partial to all critters. Everyone in town knows Henry loves a stray anything. His landlord turns a blind eye to his many pet rescues, preferring to let sleeping dogs lie and all.

“Did you find another sick dog to nurse back to health?” How he affords to care for them is a local mystery. The popular theory is his mother, Dorothy, left him a substantial inheritance- or was it life insurance? Either way, he spends all his money on strays and none on his home.

“I found ’er down by the creek a few days ago,” he says. “I guess her mother had better things to do...” His grin evaporates into his brow, forming a soured wrinkle.

“How about that! What’s her name? I’d love to meet her!” Showing interest in his strays always brings him back around. This time it did half the job.

“Well, her name is Imogen,” he said, still wearing his sour face. “But she’s not ready yet. Come back in a coupla weeks and I’ll let her meetcha.”

“Sounds great I’ll meet you right here in two weeks.” We shake hands and I finish my Saturday grocery trip.

. . .

The day arrives, bringing clear skies and a chill in the air signaling the summer’s demise. It’s perfect for strolling to Henry’s to meet Imogen. The town gossip says Henry is happier these days. It’s nice to hear he’s doing better. Today is a good day.

My walk to Henry’s is divine. The sun is setting low as I make my way along the sidewalk to his mailbox. He’s waiting for me.

“Howdy!” He says. We shake hands under the streetlights and exchange the rest of our pleasantries. We park the conversation in its accustomed place. “Are you ready to meet ’er?”

“Henry, you know I’ve been waiting to meet her!”

He smiles and runs to the house, up the dry-rotted steps and through the threshold’s darkness into his home.

There’s that smile of his, never far behind.

Sweet honeysuckle drifts along the evening air. The house clamors as Henry returns. He pulls a red Radio Flyer wagon behind him - the kind used to haul children around town. The anticipation is too much. I step toward the house, and the honeysuckle scent vanishes. My nostrils are awash with the fetid odor of something wrong.

“No!” Henry throws his arm out to push me back. “You weren’t s’posed to move! Go stand by the mailbox, the lighting’s better there.”

I obey. I’d do anything to escape the stench, but it follows. The putrid odor hangs around Henry. He continues pulling the wagon toward me and the mailbox. Each step brings new waves of nausea.

Ten feet away.

Five feet away. Bile floods my mouth.

Arm’s reach. The stench doubles down and I vomit into the street.

“Howdy.”

Struggling to recover composure I look up at Henry who’s towering over me. He’s intimidating. His smile accompanies the ‘howdy’, never far behind.

“H-Henry, what’s going on?” Each syllable is stained with stomach acid.

“Meet Imogen.” He pulls the wagon into view. In the streetlight, all is made clear. Imogen’s frothy carcass sloshes in the wagon. A swarm of flesh flies erupt from her body, deafening the night air by the beating of their translucent wings.

“What happened to her?!”

Retch.

“What the hell happened to her, Henry? ANSWER ME!”

“Nothing happened to her,” he says. His eyes flicker and he tries to stifle a laugh, but it curls his lip. “I found her like this down by the creek.”

He found her like this...?

“Mother says I can’t keep her in the house anymore,” he says. He pulls his trashcan off the street, opens the lid and pours Imogen into it. Closing it, he pushes it back to the street and walks over to me. “It’s okay, though. I’ve got myself a new stray. Found her down by my mailbox. Gonna name her Imogen.”