A Rose for Bucca
My dog has a weird effect on reality. His enemies come to gruesome fates.
He was passed along as a puppy and one of his early "owners" kept him in the basement a minimum of 18 hours a day, rarely fed him, and let him run loose in Clifton Heights, eating food from garbage cans. That guy died in a boating accident on the Ohio River, literally losing his head.
On Sunday, three police cars and a coroner's van pulled up in front of our building. After a short while, a horrible stench oozed over the whole area. One of the neighbors, who lived two floors directly below me, had died sometime around Halloween. I don't have full details and don't particularly want them but I can't see how serial killers can stand it. Rotting bodies don't smell so much as old garbage but like old dishes that have sat in a sink full of water for a long, long time.
I feel sorry for the guy and have to wonder if he had any family at all for this to happen. He was relatively young (at least ten years younger than anyone else on his floor) and seemed healthy the last time I saw him. He was known for complaining about dogs (repeatedly about my dog Bucca) and children (repeatedly about Devilboy until I brought up the magic letters "ADA" to the condo association). He also stopped and confronted my stepdaughter when she was walking home from school about making too much noise. Afterwards, when I went down to talk to him afterwards, he was pretty contrite.
One of the neighbors made the comment, "On the bright side, I guess I won't get any more letters about my grandkids."
I don't know if Bucca put the hex on him but it tells me not to complain about everything in life (and, no, that doesn't mean I'm shutting down the blog). I doubt if anyone could have done something to save his life but I don't know of anyone else who could disappear for two weeks and not be noticed.