So It Goes

         “Praise be to God,” he said, “and Glory, as well.”

         I did not like the tone in his voice when he said things like this. Condescending.

         “Ok. Whatever you say.”

         He looked at me with his nose turned up, like one would a vagabond, or an immigrant. “I’ll continue to pray for you.”

         I smirked. “You do that.”

         He walked out the door. “Have fun at church!” I shouted, but he had slammed the door and didn’t hear me.

         I stumbled about the house and into the kitchen in search of breakfast. I was certainly not accustomed to being awake this early on a Sunday. I usually like to sleep until the afternoon. But that zealous bastard had insisted that I accompany him to mass, even though he knows I’m a devout atheist. I had refused, citing a headache, a cold, and fatigue as reasons for my lack of enthusiasm.

         Of course, he did not believe me, and launched into an hour long sermon about the goodness of God and the miracles of Christ, and salvation. People like him were big on that, salvation. They always reminded me of drug addicts, with obsessive attempts to obtain salvation and constant references to it. But I knew him when he was a real drug addict. Salvation.

         “Praise be to God, and Glory, as well.” That’s how it ended, and I wrote him off.

         I found some leftover chicken fried steak in the refrigerator, and decided to have it for breakfast. I put it in the microwave. I opened the refrigerator again to look for soda.

         “Shit.” We were out of soda. "No mixer, I guess."

         I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice from the freezer and poured myself some whiskey. Whiskey on the rocks has a good, sweet taste and doesn’t burn as much, on account of the cold.

         I walked over to the sink and opened the window above it, and lit a cigarette. I could see into my neighbor’s backyard. He had this huge pine tree growing in the middle of the yard, and I wondered how tall it might be while I smoked and sipped whiskey on the rocks and waited for my food to cook. After a little while, I decided pine trees were ugly, and at the same time, my neighbor came out the back door of his house with his dog on a leash.

         Crazy bastard, I thought, what on earth does he need a leash in the backyard for? and amusing thoughts of the dog attacking imaginary strangers in that yard occurred to me, and I chuckled.

         My neighbor tied the end of the leash around the tree and walked back into the house.

         I was indignant. Why, I thought, if you want to punish the dog, why not just put him outside? Why tie him to a tree?

         The dog stared at me with big, sad brown eyes. I observed him panting and then scratching himself, then staring and panting again. I smiled. The dog barked, and I took a drag of my cigarette and sipped the whiskey.

         I noticed then that the dog had no food dish or water bowl that I could see. “What kind of cruel bastard would tie up an animal without food or water?” I said that out loud. I was becoming angry. Then my neighbor came back outside. Good, I thought, he’s bringing food and water. But he was not carrying food and water. He was carrying a rifle. I took a drag of my cigarette and sipped the whiskey.

         My neighbor grabbed the dog’s leash forcefully, and the dog yelped and bit his master on the arm. My neighbor recoiled and then, justified by this sudden act of insurrection, struck the animal in the head with the butt of the gun. The dog went limp and fell to the ground. My neighbor pulled up his shirtsleeve and examined the bite wound, bestowed upon him by his former best friend, now laying unconscious at his feet. The severity of the wound seemed to enrage him further and he kicked the lifeless animal. Then he pointed the rifle at the dog’s head and pulled the trigger. I took a drag of my cigarette and finished the glass of whiskey.

         My neighbor wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm--it was June, and warm--and stared down at the animal with contempt. He was a stern master who had dealt justly with a lawbreaker, and his look suggested a repulsive self-righteousness.

         Then he looked up and saw me staring at him, saw that I had witnessed the whole dreadful scene.

         And you know what the bastard did?

         He smiled and waved, like good neighbors do.

         I stared at him coldly, while he stood there smiling stupidly and waving like an imbecile. Finally he frowned (it was a dumb, pitiful look) and walked back inside.

         The microwave beeped. But I wasn’t hungry anymore.

         I put my cigarette out in the ashtray, took the chicken fried steak out of the microwave, and threw it in the trashcan. I looked around for a moment, unsure of what to do.

         What could I do?

         "Praise be to God, and Glory, as well."

         I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and went back to bed.