Dressed up Like a Dog’s Dinner

Warning, This gruesome tale might upset some of you. Apologies in advance.

Frederick turned over page 43 of Butchery Basics. Chapter 3, Lamb. Finger and thumb prints of blood sullied the top corner.

‘Okay, Henry that’s the dressing completed.’

Frederick glanced at the Gles storage box — one of six recently bought from IKEA — filled to the top with intestines, stomach, lungs and other vital organs. A pool of blood swamping the contents visible through the opaque green plastic.

‘I have to admit, Henry I thought I was going to mess this part up, but if I say it myself, I made a pretty clean job of slicing out the innards.’

Frederick pulled another container from the stack of five remaining pristine boxes and placed it beneath two hooks tied with blue nylon tow-rope to one of the ceiling trusses in his garage. He double-checked the next step on page 44.

‘Right, now to bleed it.’

Using a long blade knife, he cut holes just above the feet, between bone and tendon. Without much effort he lifted the small carcass and guided the hooks through the holes. He checked the box was positioned to collect all the liquid draining out.

‘This takes at least thirty minutes, Henry. Time for a cup of tea, I think.’

Forty-two minutes later Frederick returned carrying an orange coloured box. After cutting the bindings he took out a brand-new Black & Decker Scorpion saw.

‘Hope this works, Henry.’

He tested the machine. Satisfied he put it aside and unhooked the carcass and laid it on his work bench.

Turning page 45, Frederick read it several times before starting the saw and cutting off the four limbs half-way along from the torso. These went into the next two boxes. The fifth Gles bin took the head sawn off at the neck.

‘Okay, Henry. Now I need to get the skin off. This is going to be difficult, I hope the knives are sharp enough.’

An hour of careful work followed paring the skin away, inch-by-inch, from the muscle fibre beneath. Manipulating around the stumps was fiddly and time consuming. Finally, the exposed red tissue of the skinned carcass lay on the bench-top. Blood released during this stage smeared the surface in a random pattern. Skin lay in a crumpled heap inside the last IKEA box.

‘How about that, Henry? Almost done. I just need to cut this into joints and steaks. I think I’ll make some mince as well.’

It was getting dark by the time Frederick finished. The book lay open at a blood splattered page 51. The limbs sliced and boned. The meat cut into inch cubes. The back-bone stripped of meat and sawn into handy pieces placed in a refuse-sack along with the ribs.

On a shelf above the work-bench, a neat line of twenty-five filled freezer-bags ready for cold storage. Frederick carried them, four at a time to an ancient chest-freezer in the corner of the garage. After six trips a single one remained.

‘One more than I expected, Henry. I think we can have this tonight as a reward for our labours, eh?

Frederick smiled at his dishevelled, partially bald, German shepherd.

‘Phew, I’m tired. I think I’ll clean all this up in the morning.’

Frederick disappeared into his house, coming back a few minutes later with a stainless steel dog-bowl. He filled it with meat from the freezer bag.

The animal had witnessed the slaughtering and dressing of his attacker while tied to a garage-support beam. He crouched against the wall trembling spasmodically. Frederick put the bowl on the floor by the work bench.

‘That’s the last time any seven-year old apprentice thug ties a rocket to your trusting tail isn’t it, Henry?’

Stroking the dog in an effort to calm him, he loosed the leash. With a puppy-like yelp, Henry charged out the garage, cleared the fence in one jump and headed for “as-far-away-as-possible” at full speed.