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My mom adopted a dog when I was in HS. The dog was fucking ugly. I hated him. He was old and smelled like shit.
So one day I decided to send his musty ass away. I tied up its legs and put it in a big bag with a zipper and headed out. I hesitated a lot at this point. Then I took the longest walk ever. I got paranoid as fuck very soon. I swore everybody was staring at me suspiciously.
It was late afternoon so it started to get dark. I decided to throw the whole bag in any dumpster I could find. I was nervous as fuck and started to panic. I found a dark alley with a medium sized bin and decided to throw him there.
I was on my way back and I freaked out imagining my mother asking about the missing bag, on top of the missing dog. So I quickly went back to the crime scene to remove the bag. That's when I realized the dog was completely limp. Dead weight. I thought "fuck" as I assumed he suffocated to death. I removed the bag and scrambled back home.
Then I realized the bitch took a shit inside the bag, so I frantically washed it. The smell wouldn't go away and I was freaking the fuck out. I put a shitload of aromatizer inside to cover it. Then I just hoped mom would believe my bullshit story.
I was shifty as fuck, anyone could have seen right through me. I told mom he wasn't in the house when I arrived from school, so I assumed he sneaked out without anyone noticing. I was sweating my tits out. Mom bought it and didn't mind it that much. I then realized I killed a fucking dog. Like what kind of sick motherfucker does that.
I lived with that idea for months until mom told me she found him with a new owner. It seems he wasn't dead, probably just asleep or catatonic or whatever, and someone found him in the dumpster and adopted him. Mom said he recognized her and that's how she noticed. I never felt relief like that.
This taught me I was not the cold blooded psychopath I thought I was, but a little bitch that couldn't handle the guilt nor the paranoia.
