Cause of Death

I know I’m not a doctor or a scientist, but I didn’t have to be to determine that the Martin’s dog was infected with the same virus as Joel. With the eye (s) and condition of the body like that, it was repulsively obvious.

I’ve been thinking. The way I write my story comes off as cold, like I don’t care that my husband is a zombie. I killed a dog with a baseball bat, and I’ve never killed anything in my life. Please don’t think I’m heartless or have no conscience. This is all too stressful for my brain to compute, and I think I’m just numb right now. It’s my mind’s way of staying sane.

On Saturday morning after I had a good chance to examine the dog in good light (with tripled latex gloves, of course), I fed the dog to Joel to sustain him and to get rid of the corpse. Is that wrong? Our living room has an old vent in the floor, about one foot by one foot. There’s no chance that Joel could ever get through it, but it allows me to watch and feed him (or try to, but he’s picky and will only eat meat—raw or cooked) because it’s straight into the basement. I dropped the dog down the hole and quickly shut the vent grill again then pushed the couch back over it.

The dog is still there today, dammit. That’ll start to stink eventually. Actually, Joel will start to stink, too. Hmmmm.