Buddy

I used to be a professional dog walker. I was mostly hired by doting pet owners, but there were a few who had bought them on a whim, and kept them like a must-have accessory; manicured, fed on trendy diets, and exercised by the hired help.

Mrs Culshaw was one of those.

Her dog Buddy loved to walk, but he pulled harder on the

way home than on the way out.

It was illogical. Counter-intuitive.

But also true.

This dog walking observation was, weirdly, the first thing I told the police. It would have been more logical to start with the moment I saw the twisted shape or the bloodied hand.

Or even a few seconds before then, when I opened Mrs Culshaw’s front door and saw the

broken guitar, or a heartbeat afterwards when I confronted her hanging limply, with the top E-

string embedded in her fleshy throat.

I dropped Buddy’s lead and lunged forward. Grabbing her. Sliding in the congealed blood, trying desperately for any sign of life.

At least, that’s what I told the police.

And they believed me. They still do.

After all, everyone knows it’s the dog walker who finds the body.

© 2024, Alison Bruce