This story actually happened to me. I did take some poetic liberties, such as changing names to protect the guilty.
Body in the Back Yard
The body was limp, legs busted, neck bloody. Wrinkled eyelids half shut and seeing nothing. Gross.
I knew, at once, that Jude had killed again, but what was I to do? I’m Jude’s daddy; I had to protect him with every means at my disposal. I wrapped the corpse in plastic, raked up as much evidence as I could find, and ran over the remainder with the bagger attached to the lawn mower. This made me an accomplice, I know. But a guilty conscious will never stop a father from shielding his family.
After the deed was done, all I wanted was a cold shower, but I had no sooner entered the house when the doorbell rang. Constable Williams, friend and neighbor, stood on my doorstep. He looked as hot and frustrated as I felt. A black pistol cinched tight against his utility belt seemed extra menacing to me. Did he suspect?
“They’re onto us, Jude,” I said and brushed the dirt from my jeans before I opened the door.
“Hey Tom,” the sheriff said. “I’m missing one of my white chickens. Have you seen him?”
I hesitated, just long enough to appear like I gave it a little thought. “No, sure haven’t.”
“Be on the lookout, okay?”
“Sure will, Ben.”
When I closed the door, I looked down at Jude. Warm brown eyes and a black nose glistened in the afternoon light. His tail wagged slowly. I knew that he knew that I knew.
“You’re a bad dog, Jude.”
P.S. I got to tell you that it was a fair fight. The dog in question was a chihuahua, no bigger than the chicken.