Dead Clown Barbecue Read Free Page A

anymore."
    "Would you want to be left like that? Just lying in a cold grave and . . . jiggling?"
    "This is the last time. I mean it. I'm never going back to that place after this. I don't care if our next pet is frickin' Lassie; I'm done with the pet cemetery."
    Abigail nodded. "I'll respect that."
    "I need a bowl."
    Thankfully, because it was so cold out, Tipsy didn't squish between my fingers, and came out of the grave in one solid chunk. I placed him in a plastic bowl that would never again hold chocolate chip cookie dough and brought him home.
    "He's not moving," said Abigail.
    "Just watch. His ear will twitch."
    After a moment, his ear twitched. Abigail gasped.
    "What do we do with him?" she asked.
    "I don't know. You're the one who wanted me to bring him home."
    "We have to put him out of his misery."
    "How?"
    "I don't know!"
    "I guess if we thaw him out first, we could flush him."
    "No!"
    "Hear me out, hear me out! What else do you want to do? You don't want to just stomp on him, do you? Put him in the garbage disposal? Flushing him down the toilet isn't giving him a dignified death, but it would be pain-free, and he wouldn't come back."
    Abigail wiped a tear from her eye. "I'll have to think about it."
    "We've got time."
    As Tispy thawed, Abigail sat there at the dining room table, staring into the bowl. I took the kids to a movie.
    When I got back, Tipsy was unrecognizable as anything that had ever been a cat. You wouldn't confuse him with something Abigail might be mixing up to serve for dinner, but there was very little left of his solid state.
    "Okay," she said. "I'll flush him."
    "I can do it," I told her.
    "No. This is all my fault. I'll do it."
    She got up, taking the bowl with her. I listened as she walked up the steps, softly weeping. We did have a downstairs bathroom, but I wasn't going to tell a woman in mourning that she was using the less convenient toilet.
    There was a thump.
    "Everything okay?" I asked.
    "I dropped him!"
    As I walked into the living room, I saw Abigail slip on the Tipsy-ooze. Her arms pinwheeled above her head, and I cried out in horror as she tumbled down the stairs. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, crack .
    Sometimes, you know something is wrong. You know that, no matter how great the loss, no matter how devastating and heart-wrenching a tragedy may be, dead is better. You gaze into the lifeless eyes of your beloved wife, and a voice inside your head tells you don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery . . .
    I listened to the voice. Only a complete freaking moron would do otherwise, having seen how poorly it worked out for the cat. Abigail's body was cremated, and I assured Reed and Becky that she'd get to see Tipsy in heaven, where he'd gone after he was flushed.
    I'm not saying that my story has a happy ending, but all things considered, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.
     
     

COMEUPPANCE
     
    I loathed Tom Booth from the moment I saw him beating the crap out of my best friend Donald. I waited impatiently for the beating to conclude, helped Donald up after Tom vacated the premises, and vowed revenge.
    It took three more Donald-beatings for me to actually seek that vengeance. Lunchtime. Our high school cafeteria. Tom Booth walking in my direction with his tray. Spaghetti. Chocolate milk. Lime Jell-O.
    I waited for the optimal moment to strike. Too soon, and he might see the trap and successfully evade it. Too late, and I might never get a perfect opportunity like this again. Like a sniper I watched, silent, motionless, daring not even to drink from my juice box lest it distract me from this prime opportunity.
    I stuck out my foot. The target of my scorn tripped, stumbled, and . . .
    . . . regained his balance.
    Tom Booth favored me with a "You are so dead" look. I must have blurted out six different apologies at once. I offered him my juice box but he didn't accept.
    After school, Tom Booth twisted my arm