I quite liked my dad until the other day when, 12 years after his final demise, I learned that he killed our dog. For clarity: he didn’t just lunge for her one day and strangle her with his hands, but he did have to quietly put a cushion over her face and push down because he couldn’t really afford the vet and she was on the way out anyway. I had quite fond memories of my father before this. Now all I can think of is him, sobbing into the air, knees on a cushion, while Suzie convulsed beneath him. Which sofa cushion did he use to kill our dog? Why did they tell me she went peacefully? Who else has he killed?
So many questions. So many haunting questions.