Champion
Every time my bother gets drunk, he tells horrific stories, like the ones involving poisoning cats and dogs that bothered him.
I don’t like to listen to him when he is drunk, but that is about the only chance I get to see him talk and show some affection. How ironic that alcohol can make someone love his fellow humans and hate animals.
He is not proud of what he has done to animals, especially after what Red Fox did to him.
Red Fox was not actually a fox; it was a clever dog that refused to be poisoned. It made a habit to trespass over my brother’s patio, which usually smelled like barbecue. My bother never needed a special occasion to roast some meat and get drunk. That was in the old good days, anyways.
Whenever any dog or cat started pestering my brother by stealing his food, fighting, or just peeing around, he made it his duty to eliminate what he considered a pest. It did not matter if the animal belonged to a neighbor or if my brother had any close relationship with that neighbor. He would poison the animal and then show the neighbor his concern because he has not seen it lately.
Red Fox not only tried to steal my brother’s food. After being violently chased away, the dog decided to pee on my brother’s garage door. It did not take long for his acid jet to start rusting the metal door.
That’s how my bother started to share some of his best meat with this dog. The meat was seasoned with a poison called Champion or Three-steps. That’s how much an animal could walk after ingesting the powerful venom. The first time, he gave the dog a stake. The animal ate it with gusto and walked away. When it started to stumble, my brother cheered in celebration. The dog looked at him with anger and staggered down to the river.
What it ate or drank down there is still a mystery, but after a while, the dog came back up possessed. It acted like nothing had happened.
My brother thought he had used a low dose of Champion, so next time, he made it double on a pork chop. That night the dog had peed several times on the garage door. The “good” thing about it was that no other dog would get near to take the loaded chop. My brother made sure he got witnesses this time. Look at this bastard, he said. He is a fucking fox.
Once again, the dog ate the poisoned meat and walked away. Once again, it turned around to look at my brother when it felt the effect of the poison.
I got it this time, my brother said, when he saw the dog collapse. A few seconds later, it got back up and wobbled towards the river. My brother and his friends followed the animal until they lost sight of it in the dark bushy ford. It is drinking from the river, my brother said. It is eating some weed, I think, another voice echoed. I think it is vomiting, someone else said.
A few seconds later, the dog swaggered its way back up.
That’s too much, my brother thought. I’ll have to think of something more drastic.
Thus, a week later, when my brother was driving home at 5 am as drunk as a lord, and the die-hard dog stopped in the middle of the dirt road, my brother saw his chance to rid himself from his tormentor. He stepped on the gas and he swears he hit the dog pretty hard. When he stopped the car to pick it up, there was no dog.
Some people say they saw it wobbling around, red as beet, or shall we say red as a fox? He must have fought a dozen dogs, the kids said. My brother thought that was a sign. He promised he would not attempt to poison any more animals. He has said the same about drinking, until he gets drunk again.
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