'P' for Pete

His name was Peter – Peter the gnome. But I called him Pete; after my younger brother’s nick name. Peter was gone; he had been for two years. Being his older sister, it was extremely hard to absorb his loss. After all, he being hit by a car was not something pleasant to remember.

But Pete – the gnome – always seemed to make me feel better.

I adored that little thing. I loved the mock mischievousness in its eyes, and how its mouth was always twisted into a grin. Whenever it would rain, I made sure to take him under shelter, and would even paint over his rusted joints. After every single time, it was as if that cheeky smile only broadened.

Today, however, that smile was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was my dog.

“Daisy?” I called, cupping my mouth to elevate the sound of my voice. “Daisy? Come here girl! Where are you?”

Usually, being the good dog she was, Daisy always responded to me. She was a sausage dog, with legs so small they were beyond cute. Her face always had an elongated innocence to it, and her eyes would always shine with the longing for fun. I hadn’t seen that look for five minutes, and already I missed it.

“Daisy? Where are you girl?”

I could hear the buzzing of flies. A putrid smell tugged at my nostrils; almost like overdue meat. What on earth could smell so bad?

I turned a corner in the garden. And saw a bloody shape protruding from under the decking.

With anxious footsteps, I approached it. And gasped. Daisy’s body half protruded from the decking, smeared in red. But she was still alive; I could tell by the way her chest rose and fell with a desperate pace. Without delay, I ran inside to get my mum. Even as I did, I could see Peter standing by the hedge, looking at Daisy. Where there was usually a smile, I only saw a frown. Was it a trick of the sun? Or maybe I was just running too fast, and thought I was seeing what I did.

“It looks like she’s going to be ok,” said the vet, unravelling the stethoscope from around his neck. “She was mauled pretty badly, though. She’ll have to stay overnight for operating. She’s lucky to be alive.”

I sighed in relief. My mother exerted a shuddering gasp, and smoothed my blonde hair.

“Did you hear that, Elena? Daisy’s going to be fine.”

I nodded in response, because my throat was too dry for talking. I didn’t want to open my mouth anyway, because every time I saw the pulsing of my bleeding dog’s stomach, I felt like crying.

The bite marks on her ribs were huge.

And I knew exactly what had made them.

It was the Rottweiler from across the road. I didn’t know its name, but I already had one for it. Since that time I saw it pounce on the bird near the footpath, I couldn’t get the image of blood out of my head. So I called it Red.

It wasn’t just the bird though. Red had jumped a few cats, a poodle, and even a Great Dane…he was fearless. And seemed always covered in…well, red. And now it was Daisy – the dog I loved so much, ever since my mum had bought it half a year ago, for my tenth birthday. She was, after all, a gift to cheer me up after Peter’s death.

“Let’s go, Elena,” I heard my mum say. Her hand rested on my shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

I looked out my window that night. With eyes like a hawk, I watched the house across the road. I could never see the owner; every now and then the lights would flash on and off, but other than that, it seemed no one else lived there. No one but Red. Maybe he had killed the owners…no. A light just flicked on.

And still, Red was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the blanket over my nose. Even though the dog was far from getting into my room, I was still scared of it. How could I ever forget those frothing jaws, that top lip curled into a snarl, and those teeth dripping…red. It was the dog of my nightmares. The dog that made a nightmare come true.

And I wanted to kill it. But I was too young to.

Troubled, I eventually fell asleep. And was immediately woken by barking. I shot out of bed and ran to the window. Below me, outside, a shadow rolled across the lawn. It looked as though something else was charging at the shadow, but I couldn’t make out what it was…maybe another dog? No, it couldn’t have been. Because dogs don’t carry pickaxes.

The barking rose to a high pitched whine. Soon after, the only thing I could hear was a laugh of triumph.

Strange…that laugh sounded familiar?

Screaming for my mum, I ran outside. Even though I knew the barking was from Red, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Because I had heard him whimper. That tough, fearsome dog had a weakness.

As I turned a corner in the backyard – the same corner where I found daisy – my blood froze. There was Red, lying on his side, and covered in his own name. His maw was left gaping open, spilling froth and drool onto the grass.

I moved closer, ignoring the footsteps of my mum. Even as she spoke to me, hugging me and asking what was wrong, I didn’t respond. Because now I understood.

Across Red’s stomach, the letter ‘P’ was carved into it. And standing in the shadows of the porch, holding a blood stained pickaxe, was Pete. That laugh…so familiar…and the letter…

No way.

I saw the smile on Pete’s face. I couldn’t help but smile back.