At lunch on Sunday he contemplated the death and potential murder of his own yellow lab. That was the only viable option he could see to remove himself from this liver-wrenching, enervating relationship. She loved that dog like a child. He hoped, like the death of a child, the death of his dog would strain their unspoken covenant enough to reveal a consensual split as the most amicable alternative. She would always, every day, blame him for taking their young prelude to a child on the hunt with his high-school friends – his high-school friends who hunt with a shot-gun in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Quite normal and expected really. There had never been a lethal accident before. This time, of course, it would be pre-mediated. But she would never know. Perhaps not even suspect. Damn, though, he sure was a good dog.

2008