Missing Pet nosleep

The creature's death had not been my own fault.

Please understand that the beast was in great agony. It struggled to breathe in shallow, raspy breathes, lifting its head as I approached the scene cautiously with lantern held high in such a way that it mocked the visage of a beam of moonlight. I heard its breathing become increasingly rapid and desperate, and it scratched weakly against the cold earth, its large, almond eyes darting to and fro. I stood completely still, frozen in the night air, and drew my flashlight closer to its mangled form.

I empathize: It was dying, near death! Whatever forces of destiny had dictated that I stumble upon its scene of demise had chosen me to exercise the greatest amount of pity for it. In truth, I write this with the upmost hesitancy, but also with a heart of feverish guilt. What else could I have done, though? Yes—I could have released it, but for what? For the miserable brute to suffer a slow and painful death?

I recall a gasp escaping me as I realized its unusual size, too large to be a wolf and yet still so far from rivaling a bear. My uneasiness grew as I saw the reason of its demise: the poor thing was caught in a hunter's snare, wrapped tightly around one of its back legs! In its panic, it must have pulled the snare tighter and tighter, until the snare had broken the skin, creating an infected, festering wound that was painful to even look at. From the looks of its miserable state, it had been there for several hours, perhaps even days.

The creature let out a pitiful moan, teeth chattering as my footsteps rattled the fallen leaves of the trail. I grimaced at the sound it produced. The sounds chilled me as it continued, moaning and whining as it clung to thin shreds of life, and as I observed I knew that its grip was slipping. Its tongue lolled from its torn lips, panting harshly and repetitively licking its muzzle. It stared at me intelligently, and I felt ill. From the uneasiness it gave me, it was nothing in comparison to the fear the creature must have felt.

As I’ve said, from the time I had discovered this poor dying animal I knew I had been granted with the task of releasing it from its prolonged agony, and I did so swiftly, crushing its skull with a heavy, nearby stone. My first strike had failed to deliver a precise blow, and the beast struggled weakly, teeth seeming to vibrate with fear and flecks of saliva mixed with blood spatter my clothes and face. My second attempt was the finishing blow, and the creature finally ceased all movement. Several of its teeth now lay scattered upon the ground near my feet, but I dared not to take them as souvenirs.

I was relieved that the poor animal suffered no more, and I entertained the thought of digging a shallow grave to cover its bloody body, but the night air became stiff and still, and I grew cold. Only the moon bore witness to what I had done, and I shuttered as I felt its cold gaze shine down on me like a swollen, yellow eye. I gathered my flashlight from its place where I had set it aside from where I lifted a rock as my execution tool of choice. Turning back once more, I gave the body a final look, my eyes lingering on the creature's mangled leg before I went on my way.

The guilt weighs heavy in my mind as I continue to write this confession. One could pin me as an animal lover of sorts, but it pains me to see any creature suffer in agony, especially the way that I saw this particular beast had. My mind drifts to the nice gentleman who visited me earlier today, and between the incident and their visit, scarcely any other thoughts occupy me.

Such nice, polite men they were, asking me softly spoken questions about a recently missing pet. My veins seemed to run with ice the moment they mentioned a lost pet, though. The poor animal I had mercifully killed—could it have been-? Even in my moment of doubt, however, I said that I had seen nothing. To visit my small, isolated home near the edges of the forest seemed a rational decision, they said. The pet could have escaped into the woods, frolicking so merrily and without care, but once again, I reaffirmed that I had seen nothing out of place.

They thanked me for my time, both of them shaking my hand. I saw them out the door, and before they left, they handed me a flyer. It was formatted neatly, exclusively black and white printed with a picture of the apparently missing pet fitted largely in the middle of the page. The men said to call them if I had any more info concerning the missing animal, and I smiled with a “Can do, gentlemen!”

Even now, the flyer stays pinned with a single magnet on my refrigerator, and every time I cross the kitchen, I happen to take notice to it. The pet is cute, looking cheerful as it sits nearby its apparent owner and seeming to grin as it stares into the camera. I remember hearing that dogs often resemble their owners; if such a statement was true, then I have certainly seen the evidence! Large, dark almond eyes are gleaming from even the black and white photo, and I couldn’t help myself from smiling at the likeness. I recall that the animal’s name had been “Trevor”, with the appropriate last name. At this, I chuckled.

Truthfully, I did not see the fuss in conducting an elaborate search for one’s pet. Sure, this era of pet “parents” had become trendy, but I sometimes feel as though people take the trend too far. I suppose it keeps people sentimental and feeling satisfactory though, which is fine. I personally have never seen the appeal in keeping pets. They are messy, loud, occasionally obnoxious, and expensive. Still, it was none of my business what people do with their time and money, so I digress.

With the new information of this missing pet, however, it only served to produce greater anxiety within me. As I mentioned, the thought that it was someone’s pet that I had put down crossed my mind. I have always been somewhat of a worrier, but as I further recalled the mental image of the creature I had killed, the more it seemed to mirror the picture on the flyer. What to do, indeed.

Although I suppose it’s possible I am merely being overcautious and extremely empathetic, I plan to call the police back and inform them of the possibility. The guilt felt similar to the feeling of accidentally running over someone’s pet, I admit, but I knew that it was my duty to report the death and tell the owners that the creature had ceased to suffer so painfully.

As I sit here typing this, I also admit that I feel a bit foolish to ask this, but I am new to these sorts of situations, even more so about pet trends, but isn’t it a bit in bad taste to label your lost pet’s flyer with “AMBER ALERT: MISSING TEEN TREVOR JONES, LAST SEEN NEAR SMOKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK”?

Submitted January 15, 2015 at 08:13PM by creepypng http://ift.tt/1yneZoH nosleep