He crouched silently in the corner, hidden from view.
Training his keen eyes on the white-washed suburban home, he watched her henna-dyed red hair bobbing about as she frantically moved from room to room. Searching. Calling out the name of her loved one in vain. Should he help ease her worries?
No.
He is determined to give her no such relief. Not after the horrendous crime he witnessed this morning. His eyes narrowed at the thought.
Pressing his slim frame as close as he could possibly manage against the wall, he held his breath a few seconds a time before exhaling slowly, careful to minimise the whoosh of air coming escaping from his mouth.
The sun is rising, its light filtering through obsessively symmetrical shrubbery. The morning dew evaporates at the gentle touch of the warm rays, giving off curiously musty hints of damp leaves, insects, bird feathers, earthworms and dirt, all fused into one intangible aroma.
He is beginning to sweat - the cement floor greedily drinks in the liquid as small drops quickly spread into large, deep grey polka dots. And the poor workmanship of his cheap cotton t-shirt (with the words "Who let the dawg out?" emblazoned in red across the back) was starting an itch just below his shoulders. He badly needed to scratch it.
A tiny spider industriously spins its web on the wall, near his face. He could feel the cold and sticky threads just barely touching his nose. How he loathes araneae in all their disgusting eight-legged existence. Yet he remained in that corner, motionless and unnoticed by the world.
The woman has stopped her search momentarily. He knew from the rumble of the house's main water pump that she was in the shower, getting ready for work. In his mind's eye, he could see her stepping daintily out of the steam-filled shower, dressing up in clothes carefully matched the night before, styling her hair and giving her eyes and lips a "quick swipe" of make up before balancing her brown plastic 80's-style spectacles on the bridge of her nose. The same routine, just as he has observed her doing every weekday, year in and year out.
Exactly 5 seconds more before the main door opens.
5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
The heavily-polished rubber wood door swings open, and the woman spots him almost immediately. Damn.
His cover is blown. The operation is over. He would need to think of a valid reason...no, three valid reasons...for this unforgivable failure, by way of explanation to the Chief.
"There you are...where have you been all morning? You had me worried sick!"
He shared none of those sentiments with her as he casually strolled into her waiting arms, the morning's crime erased from his memory through sheer generosity and forgiveness.
And what sort of name is Dot Kueh for a regal and intelligent Pekingese like him, anyway?
Stupid human.Training his keen eyes on the white-washed suburban home, he watched her henna-dyed red hair bobbing about as she frantically moved from room to room. Searching. Calling out the name of her loved one in vain. Should he help ease her worries?
No.
He is determined to give her no such relief. Not after the horrendous crime he witnessed this morning. His eyes narrowed at the thought.
Pressing his slim frame as close as he could possibly manage against the wall, he held his breath a few seconds a time before exhaling slowly, careful to minimise the whoosh of air coming escaping from his mouth.
The sun is rising, its light filtering through obsessively symmetrical shrubbery. The morning dew evaporates at the gentle touch of the warm rays, giving off curiously musty hints of damp leaves, insects, bird feathers, earthworms and dirt, all fused into one intangible aroma.
He is beginning to sweat - the cement floor greedily drinks in the liquid as small drops quickly spread into large, deep grey polka dots. And the poor workmanship of his cheap cotton t-shirt (with the words "Who let the dawg out?" emblazoned in red across the back) was starting an itch just below his shoulders. He badly needed to scratch it.
A tiny spider industriously spins its web on the wall, near his face. He could feel the cold and sticky threads just barely touching his nose. How he loathes araneae in all their disgusting eight-legged existence. Yet he remained in that corner, motionless and unnoticed by the world.
The woman has stopped her search momentarily. He knew from the rumble of the house's main water pump that she was in the shower, getting ready for work. In his mind's eye, he could see her stepping daintily out of the steam-filled shower, dressing up in clothes carefully matched the night before, styling her hair and giving her eyes and lips a "quick swipe" of make up before balancing her brown plastic 80's-style spectacles on the bridge of her nose. The same routine, just as he has observed her doing every weekday, year in and year out.
Exactly 5 seconds more before the main door opens.
5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
The heavily-polished rubber wood door swings open, and the woman spots him almost immediately. Damn.
His cover is blown. The operation is over. He would need to think of a valid reason...no, three valid reasons...for this unforgivable failure, by way of explanation to the Chief.
"There you are...where have you been all morning? You had me worried sick!"
He shared none of those sentiments with her as he casually strolled into her waiting arms, the morning's crime erased from his memory through sheer generosity and forgiveness.
And what sort of name is Dot Kueh for a regal and intelligent Pekingese like him, anyway?
(c) Maggie Chong, 2008
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