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the white rug
posted January 17, 2010 1:10 am
When Earmud died nine year old Lyla spent eleven days locked up in her room.
During those eleven days she spent most of her time staring at the white rug where he often snuggled in; the corner which he frequently gnawed at frayed tremendously. It still held strands of his long, unrefined fur, and patches of dried blood from his nightly coughing episodes. Lyla remember trying to fall asleep on that very same rug once or twice before. It was not very comfortable. Lyla had always wondered how did the scrawny little thing even find comfort on such a measly sleeping apparatus.
For eleven days, Lyla sat in her bed and stared at that bloodstained, fur-filled white rug.
On the twelfth day Lyla got up from her bed, picked the rug up and tossed it into the fireplace.She stood and stared at the rug for the last time as it crackled into oblivion.
Lyla would stop to wonder if she will ever regret what she just did, but the slightest sight and scent of the dog made her cringe with absolute abhorrence.
Posted in , Little Lyla
