REX (standard:horror, 2276 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Sep 16 2009	Views/Reads: 3088/1932	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A money-making pet kidnap scheme should not try and capture 'Rex'.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the back bedroom. He wondered about never giving it back as punishment 
for giving it such a daft name, but that was not important. The only 
important thing about the whole venture was the money, and until he saw 
a sign in a shop window with Brewster's picture on it and a reward, 
then the dog stayed put, in a stuffy bedroom, with sunlight beaming in 
through dust ingrained windows, on a carpet of old newspapers, and some 
of his mother's old pillows which were used as bedding. That was where 
the dog sat, looking at Ian with sad, fearful eyes, eyes that asked 
questions as to why, and what was going on. He'd put it in there incase 
it barked. He was fearful that the owner would be walking by his house 
and hear a bark that would easily identify it as Brewster. He provided 
it with a bowl of water, and food which he had bought from a 
supermarket. The store's own brand, of course. 

After two days, with Ian fretting and worrying that he'd wasted his
money on pet paraphernalia, he saw what he had been looking for in the 
window of a bakers: MISSING. Labrador. Answers to the name Brewster. 
£50 reward, was what the leaflet said. There was no picture. Fifty 
quid? Ian thought. Is that it? He stood there for a while, staring at 
the notice, not really knowing why, perhaps hoping that an extra zero 
would appear on the number. He would return the dog soon, obviously 
before choosing his next victim. 

The following day, he was sat at his kitchen table, upon which were
several cans of lager, some empty. They had been bought with the reward 
money he'd received for Brewster's return. Found him wandering around 
the park, Ian had said, and Mrs Abbott had wagged her finger at the dog 
in the way that some owners do when they pretend to be cross with them. 
‘Now now, whose been a bad boy? Who won't be going for walkies 
tonight?'. I understand there was also a reward, Ian had also said. The 
second animal on Ian's list was a German shepherd dog, owned by a widow 
who lived a five minute walk away in a close. Getting that dog would be 
harder, but he was sure that the reward would be bigger, therefore, he 
guessed, the risk was worth it. 

It took two days for him to formulate a plan to dognap the widow's pet.
He had found a way around to the back of the house, which was beyond 
around ten metres of bush, trees and undergrowth from a narrow road 
which curved behind the estate, and ended up in the suburb's main 
shopping area. He had discovered a door in the fence bordering the 
garden. It was obviously never used, but he thought that if he opened 
it, and created a makeshift path through the undergrowth, he could 
easily lead it out. He could take it through his own back garden and 
into the house. He thought that that was probably the easiest way with 
less of a chance of being seen. A German shepherd though, might not 
take too kindly to being taken by a stranger, so perhaps a poisoned 
piece of meat, laced with a sedative might do the trick, he thought. 
Yet, he didn't know enough about that in order to carry it through. 
What sedative would he use? How much of it? Perhaps a normal piece of 
meat, or a toy, would be enough to get it to follow him. He decided 
that that was probably his best plan of action, and set about buying a 
plastic piece of meat from the pet shop. 

Two hours after sunset, with darkness gradually veiling the city, Ian
stood at the fence, near the back door, peering through a large crack 
at the well kept garden. He'd been there for three hours, waiting for 
the dog. He kept telling himself that if he left, then the dog would 
come out. So he kept his vigil, convincing himself that the reward 
money would be worth it. Another five minutes past, and the dog emerged 
from the side of the house, to his right. It was quite clear that it 
was heading for the back door, so Ian knew that this was his best 
chance. He pulled open the door and stepped into the garden. The dog 
stopped and looked in his direction. With the lead in one hand, and a 
plastic piece of meat in the other, Ian approached, and was surprised 
when the dog started approaching him. Maybe the meat was a good lure. 
He turned and threw the object through the door, into the undergrowth. 
The dog ran after it. Soon, Ian had closed the door behind them, and 
had secured the lead on its collar. The dog looked disappointed on 
discovering the fact that the meat was plastic, and held back as Ian 
tried to lead it through the undergrowth and out onto the road. 
Eventually he managed it, and it seemed to concede defeat, so let 
itself be led. A few cars passed by as he walked with the dog, and Ian 
hoped that the drivers didn't recognise the dog and tell the owner. 

He came to his own back door, and opened it to lead the dog into the
garden. Closing it behind them, he was satisfied now that they were out 
of sight, and out of earshot. “I wonder how much I'll get for you,” he 
said, approaching the dog and squatting down to its level. “I reckon 
over two hundred they'll pay me for your return,” he said, and gripped 
the tag around its collar. Above an etched telephone number, there was 
a name: REX. He was about to stand up, to lead the dog inside, when Rex 
started to shake his head from side to side in a ‘no' gesture. Ian saw 
that his eyes seemed to register a kind of understanding. He didn't 
have time to work out if it had any significance, as those eyes turned 
to hate, to vehemence, and Rex leapt forward, his jaws clamping around 
Ian's throat. He couldn't shout or scream, or breathe, as his brain 
slowly became starved of oxygen. After a few more seconds, Rex let go, 
blood dripping from his mouth. He left the garden, and was soon back 
home, in the living room of the house where he lived. “And where have 
you been?” asked Mrs Freeman, his owner. Rex had vigorously cleaned his 
mouth of blood in the generous bowl of water in the garden before he 
went inside. He hoped she wouldn't pick up on its red tint, even though 
there was nothing she could do if she did. Rex could not answer, but 
understood everything she said, and had done for the past eight years, 
ever since he was a pup. The fact that his vocal cords could not form 
words understood by humans was the only thing preventing him from 
talking. He wondered if he should, if he could, because that might 
induce some form of seizure in Mrs Freeman, and indeed, other 
individuals who would be amazed at a dog that could talk. Perhaps 
things were better this way, protecting his owner from danger, and 
being fussed over by someone whom he knew would look after him. As a 
pup, he had found his way to Mrs Freeman, and had never looked back 
since. 

On a side board, having received its daily clean, a picture of Mrs
Freeman's deceased husband, who died eight years ago of a stroke, 
looked out at the world, dressed immaculately in his policeman's 
uniform. If Rex could have smiled. He would. 

Ian had managed to crawl onto his garden patio, his neck hastily pumping
out blood. He could not crawl any further, his face slowly whitening. 
As he lay there, able only to move his eyes, he saw movement on the 
patio, and saw that it was a kitten. It sat about a metre in front of 
his face, and looked at him curiously. Ian noticed that it had a 
twinkle in its eye, and seconds later, the twinkle in his, went out.


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