The Last Pet (Part 2)

PART 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/2NxDXPihAu

Initially Gunnar turned his nose up at the food. Then he realized it was all he was getting and began to chow down.

I’m flicking through channels on the TV. I land on a game show where a grinning TV show host with a toupee that looks like someone shampooed a dead rat is sitting across from an excited young woman.

“Congratulations, Kalina! You’ve won a free hysterectomy courtesy of your local Mercy Clinic!”

The girl screams, jumps up and hugs the host as the people around her cheer. As the masked and gloved surgeons enter to perform the procedure live I grunt and change the channel.

A documentary about the Church of Mercy. A lavish temple hall where robed children kneel down in a line. The priest, himself dressed in a flowing black robe with a golden eye emblazoned on the front, inserts a pill into each of their mouths. They all drop dead one after the other, falling into each other like shiny black dominoes.

Ech. I saw this one, I think as I change the channel again. It’s all just reruns these days.

Now an old execution. A bunch of rebels are on the gallows platform, about to get the rope for blowing up a Mercy clinic. One of them is yelling as they put the noose around his neck.

“Don’t you see? God has abandoned us! He has abandoned us for worshiping false idols! We are all bound for oblivi - !”

The trapdoor opens. I’ve changed the channel before the rope even goes taut.

There’s a knock at the door. Gunnar toddles back through to the living room and flops back down in front of the fireplace.

I’ll get it then.

When I open the front door a woman in a black suit, golden eye symbol stitched over her right breast, smiles back at me. She clutches a tablet in her hands like an unusually flat infant. She looks about thirty but her skin is pale and cracked. Her hair is white and stringy.

“Good evening,” she says brightly, “I’m from the Occult Bureau. I’m here for your monthly inspection.”

Every month someone from the Narlat Admin shows up to inspect the condition of my animal and make sure I’m doing what I can to keep it physically and mentally healthy.

Over the years I’ve managed to keep a pretty steady mid to high score but as Gunnar has aged this has become more difficult.

The woman stands there, unmoving, waiting for me to respond with a rictus smile exposing browning, brittle teeth.

Something about her puts me at an unease. But that’s always the case.

Honestly I don’t see why these inspections are even necessary. They seem pretty damn good at knowing when people are leaving their dogs in the woods or trying to strangle their caged birds without boots on the ground.

I guess there’s value in seeing the CCTV camera staring down at you.

“Of course,” I reply finally, “Come on in.”

I close the door and we head through to the living room. She seems to hobble slightly like her legs aren’t quite flexible enough to accommodate normal movement. I try not to shudder. The moment we enter the room she’s on to Gunnar, bowing towards him and smiling down gently.

“Hello there, future leader. Are you well in these exciting times?”

Gunnar looks back at her with one eye, not even bothering to raise his head. His tail wags lazily.

“Oh yes indeed,” the woman responds. She straightens up with an audible crack and turns back to me. “Such wisdom in the legitimate dwellers. You are lucky to have such an amazing responsibility, Mr Whitaker.”

I nod. We both sit down, her in the armchair, me on the couch. She swipes through her tablet, humming away to her self. I hate these things. They always draw it out.

“Your regular reports show no signs of ill health on a part of, uh, Gunnar here. Feces analysis shows no bowel issues, no sign of parasites… there were some heart palpitations in the last few weeks. Been keeping an eye on those?”

“I’ve been watching his blood pressure. Trying to feed him the right stuff, walk him every day. But he’s getting on in years and - .”

She looks up from her tablet, eying me expectantly. “Yes? Go on?”

Sweat coats my body. Any suggestion that one might be waiting for the death of their pet may be grounds for punishment. I change tact.

“I’ve been blessed with Gunnar’s presence for a very long time and, well, age catches up to us all.”

She looks at me for a long time before shrugging.

“I see. Well in any case, those like yourself hold this responsibility to the last. As the Great Narlat once said, ‘The enslavers shall be enslaved.’”

I nod enthusiastically. Her eyes drift back down to her tablet.

“But you aren’t wrong, Mr Whitaker. I see here that you’ve had Gunnar since you were quite young. Is this true?”

My heartbeat simmers. It seems to have worked. I get to keep my skin for another month at least.

“My father brought Gunnar into my life as a puppy, oh, around eighteen years ago?”

What in Mercy’s name was he thinking?

It’s not like I’d shown any skill in taking care of animals. I’d had multiple hamsters before Gunnar. Most of them either died of fright when my father stumbled in drunk in the middle of the night or they escaped never to be seen again. I found one of them stuck to the bottom of a paint can in the garage.

And somehow this track record told my father I was in need of greater responsibility. A dog of all things. Now here I am eighteen years later being grilled by a bureaucrat on said dog’s bowel health.

Thank you father, resting in the arms of Mercy.

“Eighteen years,” she responds wistfully, “Mercy, that is a long time to be blessed. It must feel so wonderful.”

I nod again, almost giving myself whiplash. She questions me for a little longer before eventually getting to her feet, signalling the end of the inspection.

“Well Mr Whitaker, I see no need to continue any further. Gunnar is in excellent health.” She places a hand on the eye insignia on her suit jacket. I do the same despite my lack of insignia. “May Mercy be upon you.”

“May Mercy be upon you,” I repeat back.

I walk her back to the door, celebrating inwardly on escaping the boot of the admin once again. As she exits she quickly spins around, eyes down at her tablet.

“There’s one thing left here though, Mr Whitaker. Something… troubling.”

The coat of sweat returns. “Um, yes?”

She slowly raises her eyes to me. Her smile is long gone. Replaced with a scolding glare.

“It says here you were muttering some rather horrible things earlier this morning. In the presence of poor Gunnar no less.”

I try to speak but she keeps going.

“Come on. Come on! Die, you mangy mutt! Die?” she quotes coldly from the glass in front of her. I wonder how she could possibly know this but then I think better.

I gulp hard. My body trembles, mind reeling with various potential bizarre and atrocious punishments they could rain down on me like Zeus’ lightning bolts.

A lightning bolt would be a blessing.

I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable moment my skin erupts in agonizing boils or my limbs fall off, leaving me a mere head and torso to crawl in my own filth for days on end.

But I open my eyes, only to see the brittle smile beaming dimly back at me again.

“Ah well. We can’t begrudge you the odd indiscretion. It’s a very stressful responsibility. One is being kept from the arms of Mercy. It’s liable to create strain.”

What is this I see? Mercy in the eyes of a bureaucrat?

My tremors vanish, my clothes soak up the last of the terror sweat. I almost feel like hugging the woman until she says:

“As such, your punishment shall be brief and non-invasive. Have a good day.”

She hobbles back down the path. There is no car waiting for her.