Seth Siegel


As soon as I unlocked the front door, I could tell Banksy was gone.

My wife was reading Cook’s Illustrated, an article about perfect croissants.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked.

She turned a page and said he was not there anymore.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked.

I threw him off the balcony, she said.

I looked out the window of the apartment. There was a grassy patch and a parking
lot, but no Banksy.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked.

After I threw him out I watched him limp away down the hill, I’m sure he’s fine.

I asked nicely this time.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked.

I don’t like you and I really don’t like your dog. Banksy sheds his little blond hairs all over the house and I have to clean it up. It’s disgusting.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked.

After you left for work he threw up on our bed, on my side of the bed just to spite me, then he tipped the water bowl over, and started barking at the toilet. It was too much and he knew it was. I sent him out the front door with a stick and a red and white polka-dot handkerchief for his belongings.

Banksy was always a survivor. He always ate grass or snow or cat poop. He could live on handouts and jump freight trains, but it didn’t seem plausible.

Hi honey, where is Banksy, I asked for the last time.

How many times are you going to ask me that? He jumped on me, so I got the machete and when he was sleeping I cut off his legs at the joint and threw them in the compost. I wrapped him up in gauze and gave him to an old lady neighbor who said she’d feed him well and give him rides around the block on an American Flyer, from time to time.

I didn’t like where this was going so I washed my face and joined my wife on the couch. I asked her what a dough hook was.

It was true, Banksy was gone.

Seth Siegel is a social worker in Juneau, and has been published in Emprise Review, Metazen, and elsewhere.

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