The blood hits you before you even step inside.
Wet splatters across the walls and ceiling like something out of a horror film. Not a bit of blood — a lot. Enough to tint the white light from the front door panel pink.
Then you see them.
Three dogs.
Sitting on the stairs like butter wouldn’t melt.
Behind me:
“What the fuck.”
Over and over again.
What the fuck turns out to be exactly the problem.
It’s my first day in a new job. The other half’s at uni. The dogs are on separation duty. Macy’s in season, and the boys have just turned two — which means to them she’s no longer their mum.
She’s a possibility.
Lock Macy in the bedroom.
Lock the boys in the kitchen.
Coat. Keys. Door.
Stop.
Kitchen door — locked, or just pulled shut?
Check. Sweet.
Door.
Stop.
Bedroom door — locked?
Check. Sweet.
Door.
Stop.
Message my sister: if you come over, make sure you lock the kitchen door.
Done.
New job day.
I don’t know exactly what happened.
But standing in that hallway, looking at the blood and all three dogs together, it’s obvious — my checks weren’t enough.
The boys got out of the kitchen. That makes sense. Forty kilos each, door opens outwards — they could force the latch.
Fine. We deal with that.
“What the actual fuck.”
Still going.
I head upstairs.
Three balls of love watch me with that look they get when they know they’re in trouble.
How did Macy get out?
The answer is right in front of me.
She walked out.
Through the hole that used to be a door.
What’s left is hanging off the top hinge — splintered slats, broken panels, scattered across the landing like dog-made art.
That’s how they got out.
They didn’t open the door.
They went through it.
“Oh my God. What the actual fuck.”
Still not helping.
So that explains the dogs.
But not the blood.
Did my sister walk into this and get torn apart?
I lean over the banister.
“Who did this?”
Three sets of eyes look away.
Shame.
Then Thug shakes his head like a dog coming out of the sea.
And I see it.
A fine spray — an aerosol of blood across the chalk-white walls.
He’s bleeding.
From his ear.
Whether he caught it tearing through the door or fighting his brother for top spot, we’ve got problems.
In order.
Stop screaming “what the fuck” and call the vet.
I’ll call my brother about the door.
I’ll get my sister to bring bleach.
And then we need the calendar.
“Why?”
We need to count fifty-six days.
