Laughing Dog

I drive to the marsh for a duck hunt with my brother. When I get there, he is already dressed as a retriever with black, flappy ears. He sniffs in the mud for something to eat. It's my task to feed him. I shoot one duck after another until they tumble out of the sky like a rain of feathered boots. Supply trucks show up with crates of fresh ammunition. When there are no more ducks left, I shoot all the owls, then all the flamingos and the bald eagles. My brother won't eat any of the dead. He keeps pointing at me with his dog paw and laughing. This goes on until all the trucks break down and the drivers and their families build caves inside the mountains of dead birds. They shout me on, their hungry mouths as red and open as the wounds of their new homes, as I load the final bullet and aim the barrel at my brother.