Writing Exercise #4 - Stuart Ste. Croix

He had only taken two steps into the kennel when he felt the squish of dog shit under his shoe. I don’t care what she thinks, these dogs have got to go, he thought, lifting his foot and hopping to the fencing on his right. He scraped the bottom of the shoe against the metal, and it was at that moment, in that action, that he decided he was going to kill them. Every single last one of those mangy, useless mutts was going to die. And it wasn’t because of the shit that was stuck into the grooves of his sneakers, or because he wanted to take away the one thing that gave his wife a sense of purpose. No, it was the sound they made when they shifted in their sleep; the sight of their wet noses poking through the cages, looking for treats or a gentle hand; the soft grunts and snorts and moans and yelps; the swooshing of their tails and lapping at their paws; the stale smell of wet fur and food; the constant electric buzz of the dim overhead lighting and the way it reflected on the off-white walls. They all seemed to be watching him, softly growling, as if they knew exactly what he was thinking.