In Dog Years I'm Dead

Ruth hears the 'phone trill for the third time that evening as she is wrapping her wet hair in a towel.

"Hello?" says Sheila cautiously. "No, there's no one here of that name. No, Mike Rotch doesn't live here either—"

Even through the wood, Ruth can hear raucous laughter erupting through the handset. She prods open the door with her foot. "Why do you keep answering?"

Sheila puts down the 'phone. "I don't know. I guess I worry it might be real the next time."

"Huh." Ruth puts her head on one side. "Kinda like the opposite of the boy who cried wolf? I guess that makes sense."

Sheila shakes her head. "It's ridiculous."

"No, it's—"

"We have to stop them. We need to get revenge."

"What?"

Sheila nods, emphatic. "Yeah. Are you in?"

"Er…" Ruth demurs. She knows she's merely putting off the inevitable though, under the laser-like intensity of Sheila's gaze.

"Sheila—" she tries.

"Sshh."

"It's been three hours—"

"It'll be longer if you keep talking. Hunting means quiet."

"I know but… I'm cold, I'm tired. We have training tomorrow. This isn't sensible."

"You can go if you need to." Sheila says it without malice, as if it's obvious. Which, Ruth supposes, it is. And still she feels unable to leave.

"No, I want to help it's just—oh!"

"I see it, I see it!"

And Sheila is off, running through the undergrowth in the scrubby wood, ignoring the snags and tears of brambles ripping at her tights. Ruth follows, somewhat more cautiously, stopping to primly sidestep the grasping thorns.

"Sheila?"

The wood isn't very large. Within a minute she has reached the end of the trees, stepping out onto the cracked tarmac of a parking lot behind a video-rental store. "Sheila?" she calls again, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her shoulders.

"I got one!" Sheila triumphant, near the dumpsters.

"That's great!" Yet Ruth hangs back, not sure she can deal with the grisly end of the squirrel or whatever it was. The furry body in her friend's hands seems somewhat larger than she was expecting, however, and curiosity overtakes. "What… what is that?"

"Dead cat," says Sheila confidently.

"I thought you were chasing a—?"

"A rat. It was a rat. They always know where the dead ones are."

"Oh. Oh that's… good to know."

"Yeah. Come on. This is just phase one."

"Oh… great."

"Hey Melrose," says Sheila, "have you seen Dawn and Stacey?"

"No." She puts down her magazine on the sun-lounger. "And if I had, I'd be giving them a piece of my fucking mind. Two am they rang last night. Bad enough we have to live like nuns in this place, without stoned idiots calling at all hours."

"Yes," agrees Sheila, in that solemn way she has. "Want to get revenge?"

"Fuck yes. What do you have in mind? Toilet paper their car?"

"It's something a little more… out there," Ruth feels compelled to add, waving her hands as if she can summon a reasonable explanation out of the ether.

"We're going to put a dead cat in their room."

Melrose's mouth hangs. "Right. You're right. That's pretty fucking out there."

"Too weird?"

Melrose considers this but shakes her head. "Who the fuck even knows anymore? This place has made me crazy. Yeah, I'm in."

They cross to the door. Ruth tries the handle. "Locked."

"Right," scoffs Melrose, "that's not a problem though?" They look at her and she rolls her eyes. "You guys are such nerds." She pulls a bobby pin from her hair, inserting it into the lock expertly. A moment of concentration and the handle twists under her grasp.

"Well, that's very worrying," says Ruth.

"You sleep with all the windows open. Who even cares about your door?" She puts the pin back in her hair. "Are we doing this?"

"Yes," answers Sheila, stepping inside.

Ruth is sitting on her bed, pretending to read. Pretending, because her heart is hammering as she waits for the inevitable. On reflection she's not cut out for sneaky pranks; the tension is killing her. It's almost a relief when the shrieking starts. Sheila opens the door to frame the panicking Dawn and Stacy—they watch the farce of Gregory being summoned, his sad parade of the dead cat's body to a new dumpster resting place.

For a while all is quiet. Then, to Ruth's horror, the 'phone rings.

They stare at the handset.

"Don't—" Ruth starts, but it's pointless. Sheila lifts the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey," says Dawn, in her normal voice. "Did you put a dead cat on my bed?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why did you keep prank calling me?"

"We thought it was funny." Stacy now, taking up the tale. "Didn't you?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, why didn't you say?"

Sheila consider this. "I don't know. I guess I didn't think you would care."

"That's sad." Stacy puts the 'phone down. Ruth and Sheila exchange a glance, and then the dreaded knock on the door comes.

Ruth opens it, already cringing. "Hi."

"Hey," says Stacy, Dawn at her shoulder. She looks more sad than angry. "We're sorry."

"Yeah, we thought everyone was enjoying it," adds Dawn. "We can stop if you're not."

Sheila blinks. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that." Ruth coughs, quietly, earning herself a slow blink from Sheila until the penny drops. "Oh. I'm sorry too. About the dead cat."

"It's ok."

"Yeah, it was kind of funny when Gregory had to take it out."

"We got clean sheets."

"Did you catch it yourself?"

"Yeah," says Ruth, before Sheila can reply. "I went hunting with her. She was amazing. Like… a real wild animal."

Sheila says nothing, as the hairdressers ooh and ahh. But she catches Ruth's eye and gives her a small smile.

"You're welcome," Ruth mouths back.