Taking Sweet, Sweet Revenge - Part I

I was going through some old pics the other day, and bumped into an album full of me and Rolf, my old Labrador. I couldn't stop staring at all those images: I felt nostalgic (the beer I was having after a long stressful day possibly helped).
I got Rolf when I was 6, and he was the size of my hand. By the time I was 7, he was the size of a pony.
Not that I've ever seen a pony. My parents wouldn't give me one; according to them, it was expensive and we lived nowhere near a farm. Pft. Lame excuses.
He grew up really fast, and I couldn't play with him anymore - not without getting hurt. Like all Labradors, he was as goofy as he was huge, and completely unaware of how strong he was.
When I was 12 we'd established a routine: when I left for school, at noon, he would come running from the back of the house and jump all over me - guess it was his way of saying goodbye! And his way of saying hello, too, for he greeted me the exact same way when I arrived at 6pm.
One day, I was leaving in a hurry - mom had taken longer than usual making lunch, and so I was slightly late. In order not to miss the bus, I ran - but in the back of my mind, the feeling of something missing. What, I could not pinpoint.
I got back home at the usual time, took a shower, and went up to my bedroom to read and wait for dinner - as usual. Then, much to my astonishment, my mom comes in, sits in my chair and stares at me with red eyes. I waited.
I have to say: mom was pretty dramatic. She used to make endless storms in teeny tiny puddles; so I simply assumed she had come for another "much ado about nothing" session.
She hadn't, though.
"Rolf died this morning."
I stared at her, speechless.
She went on: she'd found him that morning, and didn't wanna say anything to me before school. As soon as I was gone, she called the vet, and he took Rolf away.
I realised, then, what had been missing that morning. And also why it had taken her so long to make me lunch.
I don't recall having cried so much in any other point of my childhood.
As I've had the opportunity to mention in another post, my dad rented "Dr. Dolittle" that night, in an attempt to make me forget Rolf. The only thing he accomplished with that was a double trauma.
The vet told us Rolf had died due to lead poisoning. He'd eaten it.
And we all instantly knew who'd done it: Mrs. Magdalen. The evil lady next door.
(P.S.: in Brazil, we refer to other people by their first names, and not their last names. Hence, Mrs. Magdalen.)
She hated all kinds of pets, and had already killed my friend's dog, and blinded that same friend's turtle. She was pure evil, and I swore she'd pay for that. Some day.
Yes, I was a dramatic teenager.

Fast forward 3 years. I had this gorgeous Balinese cat named Victor Hugo (me and my dad are Literature nerds), and he had the most beautiful blue eyes in cat history. He was also very poised and disdainful, like all cats. But I loved him, and always let him sleep in my bed, despite my high allergy to cat fur!

Suddenly, he disappeared for many a day, and I cried again.
One fine morning, I was in our terrace, from where I could see Mrs. Magdalen's roof; and what do you think I saw?
Yep, that's right. Victor Hugo's little body, clearly inanimate, and surrounded by raw meat. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was in that meat. And there was only one person who could've put the meat there.
My friend - the one who'd had her dog killed the same way as mine and her turtle blinded - told me her two cats had also met their fate on Mrs. Magdalen's roof.

I knew, then, the time had come for me to avenge Rolf and all his kindred.

I was 15, and thus did my life of misdemeanours start.

Ok, maybe I'm still a little overdramatic.

(To be continued...)

The House of Evil