I think it was the dog in the house behind ours that marked my descent into cold-blooded murder.

I hated that dog. I loathed it with such a passion as to make myself weep, I hated it so much. Those long school nights of waiting for it to just shut up, be muzzled, die, anything to just make it be quiet. It was insane, the things I thought up—I wanted to go over and throttle it with my bare hands, I was so completely annoyed. But I never wanted to leave the comfort and warmth of my own room---I simply wanted silence so that I could sleep. There are people out there who will run over a neighbor’s cat purely because they don’t like the neighbor---I took pet-hating to a whole new level.

It barked, you see. Now, that in itself was bad, because it was loud. But that’s not all, folks. Try 2:00. In the morning. And I’m a light sleeper, so I wake up the instant the barking starts, and it would go on for hours, keeping me up. I would even leave my bed when it became too much, grab my pillow, a blanket, go downstairs, and try to sleep there, to no avail. Eventually, it just got to be too much, and I cried myself to sleep, formulating this plan in my head.

It was foolproof. And it succeeded, just as planned, because I was impeccable in every detail.

I planned for years, researching what I needed, saving my money, biding my time, and collecting what was needed. Can you imagine? A 15-year-old kid, pasty-skinned from staying indoors, researching sniper rifles on Google? I even had an entire folder dedicated to the project, hidden under the name “Music”.

I turned 18 waiting for the final component of my plan. Three whole years of planning, waiting, and my work was finally going to bear fruit.

I had bought an empty violin case. Ever so carefully, I “dismantled” it, in a sense, taking out the inside of the case and replacing it with the inside of the rifle case, which I had tailored so it fit perfectly “just so”.

It was so simple. When the dog started to bark, I got the case out from under my bed and put on over my PJs the rubber smock and gloves I had gotten just for this occasion. That done, I readied my weapon and opened the window of my bedroom. I had kicked out the screen, so I had access in and out; sticking the muzzle out the window, I adjusted the silencer once and peered out the scope, orienting on that infernal barking mutt.

One gentle squeeze of the trigger and it was done. Blessed silence. Hurriedly, I pulled the gun in and let the curtain fall over my window, obscuring the outside world to mine; I clicked the fan on, setting it to High, to let the scent of gunpower dissipate, then disassembled my rifle and put it away. Taking off the rubber smock and gloves, I rolled them up and stuffed them into the violin case as well, which I then shut and locked before storing it under my bed again.

Then I pulled out a book and flashlight and read for a bit before going to sleep.

It was so simple, so perfect, and I would know in a month whether or not I had gotten away with it.

The next day I took the violin case from under my bed and jammed it into my backpack before getting onto my bike and riding off. I had this weekend to finish my plan and wait.

I biked into the woods nearby, taking a path I had discovered myself, one that led down to a stream. Leaving my bike a distance away, I switched my sneakers for waders, put on latex gloves like the kind the dentist uses, took the rubber gloves and smock, and squelched out onto the muddy bank. Crouching, I swiftly washed the gloves and smock to obliterate all traces of my fingerprints, then folded them and stiffed them into a large Ziplock bag. Walking back to my bike, I changed back into my regular attire, put the bag into my backpack, and continued down the path.

I knew of a tree where I could hide my rifle, so I went there. Keeping on my backpack, I climbed up the pine, then perched on a branch and proceeded to pull the case and a roll of duct-tape from my pack; wedging it between two branches, I duct-taped the case into place, then clambered back down.

I was acting with the meticulousness expected of a murderer, not a pet-killer. But I didn’t care. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be caught.

It’s been two years. And I still have the rifle.

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A/N: This was inspired by a newpaper article about a guy who shot his neighbor's dog. Oh, and my deep-seated hatred of my neighbor's dog. And probably that movie NUMB3RS, too.
I hope that you guys liked this, and don't think I'm too insane--I'll bet that some of you guys are pet-haters too, so share the love. This is my only true horror piece, I should think...