Lane Cove Library - Lane Cove Literary Awards 2019 An Anthology

The Pet Cemetery
Jane Downing

The moon came out from behind a bank of clouds and flooded the scene.

Youve stopped, Bridie hissed. She wasnt being funny in stating the obvious. Stumpy towered over the shovel, the gardening tool embedded in the dirt like a battlefield grave marker. He was utterly still, quite lost, like any old piece of clockwork machinery needing an occasional wind-up. Something along the lines of: Do you think its time for a smoko do you? You know those ciggiesll put you in the grave.

Marta, to one side in the moonshadow of an old oak, chortled appreciatively, her chins wobbling like a bush turkeys wattle.

They all got the joke. Once theyd dug up the grave, theyd all be able to get in.

How about I give it a go? Bridie offered when her chivvying only achieved a few more half-hearted scoops of dirt. Half-hearted and half-bodied. Stumpy was weak as a kitten down one side since the stroke. Each dig was more of a lunge, with gravity doing most of the work on the shovel.

His lips twitched, the right side went up. A grateful smile. The shovel was a walking stick as well as a tool. He came towards her to hand it over, staggered a little like a drunk despite its help. She left him doing his Leaning Tower of Pisa impersonation, his tracky-dacks pulled up high over his incontinence pants. Took his place at the coalface. With the moon out she was able to turn off the torch strapped to her skull with a Federer headband. And the lights of the others too went off as Bridie put her back into it.

It wasnt as bad as shed expected. The dirt was loose, friable, bringing to mind the gorgeous compost shed cultivated for decades for her vegetable patch. But this was not a rich soil. It shovelled easily because it was newly dug. Theyd taken it in turns as watchmen to spy out any new deaths, any new burials. This was pay dirt.

The edge of the shovel went through three more times, gliding like a knife through one of Martas angel cakes. The fourth downward thrust was arrested. Hitting the body.

This is it, she crowed excitedly.

Marta stepped forward. And what is it, dear?

The moon was a full moon. A full penny as payment to any purchase in the dark night. Bridie could clearly make out the confusion chasing across her friends features.

***

Marta Hogg and Bernard (Stumpy) Thistlethwaite were not the co-conspirators Bridie would have chosen, but as the last remaining members of the Scrabble Club, needs must.

Theyd first met when theyd moved into the retirement village, living at the perimeter of a nursing home. Behind the same gates. Since then theyd watched friends go into the abattoir-long building at the centre of the complex to die; and years later attended the funerals when the body finally followed.

The black parade did things to your head. Something theyd avoided discussing though they knew the black hole mislabelled a care facility, would consume them all. There was only one escape.

This ones an Alsatian, Bridie told Marta. A big dog.

Like a German Shepherd? Marta bent over and peered at the exposed flank.

Exactly like, Bridie confirmed brightly. It would have taken a heavy dose of Pentobarbital to send it on its way.

Martas fairy floss hair obscured Bridies view into the trench for a moment longer. Her scalp was visibly shiny through the sparse bluish strands. Bridied seen photos: shed been a regular Shirley Temple in her day.

Old Marta plucked her overcoat across her sunken breasts, a garment too small for her goodness knew where shed picked it up or where her own was left. Its cold, she said.

Which was lucky. The cold air, the cold soil, had had a refrigerating effect on the dead animal. The smells coming from the grave were no more than generically doggy.

And why are we ...? Martas voice trailed off as she straightened back up.

Because were going to be like eagles, Stumpy filled the blank.

Bridie was careful with the angle and thrust of her next scoops. They were going to cut the dog open, but she didnt fancy hacking into it for no reason. She told Marta a story as she worked and more of the dog was exposed. Stories were as unlikely to stay in Martas memory as nuggets of pure fact, but she did seem to enjoy them as they were told.

Life can be cold and hard even for the majestic eagle. Prey can be elusive. Then one by one, the eagles found the bodies of mules, and smaller pets cats and dogs whod been piled behind a Colorado veterinary hospital waiting to be cremated. Already dead, easy prey. They were the perfect meal. Bridie knew she had the details of many cases scrambled. It made the story quicker, as the Alsatian was not that big and would soon be out of its grave. And Stumpy did not correct her. But then the eagles succumbed to the same drug the vets had used to euthanise the pets. They fell from the sky.

I dont think I want to eat a dog, Marta whispered. Maybe she did remember: shed seen the connective tissue of the story to their midnight enterprise.

Stumpy then put in his tuppence worth. Youre the chef. Youll make it tasty. Hed been optimistic in the war years too. Now, at ninety-five, he was ready to call it a day before his own body turned on him again. You mentioned bacon. Liver and bacon and a thick gravy. Maybe served with some buttered toast.

Bridie heard her stomach grumble in hunger; shed been too anxious to eat her dinner. The growl made Marta jump visibly. Its still alive!

Laughter buffeted against nostalgia. Stumpy quieted his guffaw. When I was a boy I was always hungry. One year I stole the carrot nose off the neighbours snowman. I still remember the crisp, fresh taste.

He stepped forward like a sailor negotiating a gale. With his good hand, he pulled while Bridie pushed the corpse onto the pretty bed of lawn beside the grave. This was a well-maintained pet cemetery behind the local vet hospital. There was a small rose garden to the west where owners could mourn in a thoroughly picturesque setting.

Your knives, Bridie prompted. Can you bring them now? Because Marta had indeed been a chef, a highly successful one, and as everything else deserted her, shed never let go of the tools of her trade.

With the three of them cracking their arthritic bones to kneel around the dog, Bridie was aware they looked somewhat satanic. Or at least, involved in elaborate ritual. No matter what stories theyd told themselves over the Scrabble board, this reality was not the same as jointing and boning a pig on a salami weekend.

Luckily rigor mortis had past, and the flesh was limp under their ministering hands. The incision across the soft belly was the easiest. Martas eye was accurate and her hand steady. Bridie helped her pull the edges of skin apart like the top of a nannys carpet bag.

We forgot the gloves, she muttered.

Bridie swallowed hard. No longer hungry. She was pretty certain they were all fighting down the same doubts. For sure, shed prefer to be dunking another comforting milk arrowroot into her tea in front of Midsomer Murders but not everyone had the wherewithal to get on a plane to Switzerland for a dignified death.

And luckily everything inside the dog was coloured grey by the moonlight. The flesh, the organs, the blood. Bridie was reminded of her favourite joke, stolen from Groucho Marx, to take her mind off the smooth something-or-other her naked fingers were encountering: Outside of a dog, a book is a mans best friend. Inside of a dog, its too dark to read.

***

Martas skill in the disembowelling step of the jointly-hatched plan belied the many unknowns. The internet could only get them so far. Theyd heard rumours about buying the euthanasia drugs from Mexico, but theyd also read reports of packages stopped at customs and uncomfortable consequences. Bridie, always the bridesmaid never the bride, had no family to worry about and had been willing to take the risk. Stumpy and Marta wanted to cause the least distress to loved ones.