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Amy and Mac are both breathing heavily and the car
windows are starting to fog up, so despite the frigid
February morning, she cracks their windows open. They
turn their heads away from one another and inhale
ribbons of icy air. She is glad that Mac is no longer
looking at her. From the moment they got in the car, he’d
been staring at her with those big brown eyes, too
trusting or too stupid to be anything but happy about
this unexpected trip. Dumb dog.

Amy glances at the clock on her dash and presses harder
on the gas. Without taking her eyes off the road, she
reaches down to the floor on the passenger side and
grabs her purse. It takes her a few seconds of fumbling
before she locates her phone but she then quickly flips it
open and with her thumb, presses on the green phone
button twice and waits as the call is placed.

“Cedar Grove Animal Hospital. How may I help you?”
answers a young female voice at the other end of the
line.

“Hi. I’m bringing my dog in for a 10 a.m. appointment but
I’m a little late,” replies Amy.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Mac.”

“Oh right, we’ve got him scheduled for a neutering.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“How much longer will you be? Dr. Shillman is pretty
booked up this morning.”

“I shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

“No problem. See you then.”

Minutes later, she pulls into a parking space around the
corner from the vet’s office. She picks up her phone again
and flips it open. Her heart thumps in her chest as she
contemplates what she is about to do. Mac, sensing a
shift in tension between them, lets out a questioning
whine. She turns to him and runs a hand over his silky
head and along his muscular back. He licks her face in
return.

“Sorry buddy, but this isn’t personal,” she says to him.
She turns back to her phone and lets her thumb hover
over the keypad. She closes her eyes to remind herself of
why she’s doing this. And there it is, the image seared to
the back of her eyelids—Dave and that redhead, naked
and writhing on the living room rug. Her eyes snap open
as a familiar fury reignites. She dials his number and
waits for the voicemail.

“Hi Dave, it’s Amy. I’ve had done to your dog what
should be done to you. You can pick him up at the vet’s
later tonight.”
HONORABLE
MENTION

Gemini Magazine
Flash Fiction
Contest
Snip, Snip
by Jessica Wortsman
Jessica Wortsman lives in
Toronto with her husband,
two daughters and dog. Yes,
she had dog neutered, but
claims it was only for his
own good. This is her first
published piece.
Note: the photo at the top of
this page is NOT the author!