She bragged about killing my dog with insecticide, so I gave her exactly

The First Strike

My son’s therapy dog was the only thing keeping him alive until a hospital janitor took him for a walk and bragged. I held him down and poured insecticide in his mouth until his heart stopped. I didn’t say a word. That was 9 months ago. This morning, her sister was sitting in her car crying so hard she couldn’t even start the engine.

My son Ben was five when the doctors declared he had leukemia. He used to be the type to fingerpaint thank you cards for the garbage collectors every morning. But within a month, he looked like a ghost wearing his own skin. He stopped talking and spent his days staring at the machines keeping him alive.

But everything changed when I got Peanut. Peanut was a service dog who was trained to visit children undergoing chemotherapy in hospital. He had eyes the color of melted chocolate, deep and endlessly comforting. It was as if he could pierce straight into your heart and soothe every ache he found there. It was like he had a PhD in loyalty.

The second I’d bring him in from the car, Ben would reach out his arms. Peanut would hop up, maneuvering his way around the monitors, making sure not to touch anything. It was the only time my kid remembered how to smile. But it wasn’t just Ben. The whole ward lived for Peanut’s visits.

Parents scheduled their time to when I’d be there, just to see their kids happy for 60 minutes. This continued until Margaret, a new janitor that was hired, started to clean the hospital floor at night.

She was middle-aged, the type to have a permanent scowl on her face. Gray hair pulled so tight it looked painful. Her favorite hobby was complaining about everything, especially Peanut. She started off as a regular Karen, gossiping about his disease risks to anyone who would listen.

To avoid any hassle or lawsuits, I made sure to get him checked for fleas twice a week at the vet. But instead of thanking me or even just leaving me alone, she would just sneer and say that vets will say anything for money. She claimed that she was deathly allergic, which made me no better than a unaliver sigh.

Anyway, a week later, Ben had a reaction to his meds and spent the night screaming. It wasn’t until Peanut lied on his chest that he finally calmed down. And that’s when I saw it. Margaret watching through the window, her face so contorted, I could have sworn she was having a heart attack.

Fast forward to the next night when I was sitting on a steel chair in the waiting room. I had to go to the bathroom and asked one of the other moms to mind Peanut. But when I came back, he was gone. Apparently, the janitor asked the mom to take him on a walk.

My heart twisted. I found Peanut half an hour later, but he wasn’t his joyous self anymore. He was now completely dead. His carcass left to rot in the parking garage. 100 different emotions flooded my brain at once, but only one stayed, and that was rage. Because while I tried to process everything, I could hear Margaret in the distance.

She was on a phone call bragging about how she had held Peanut down and poured insecticide into his mouth and ears until his heart stopped beating. So, I did what any emotionally stable, loving father would do.

I drew up a revenge plan, not involving the police or court system. That was too nice. I wanted her to feel what Peanut felt. So, I started paying attention to her routines. She parked her car in the same spot every night and always left it unlocked. Her pathetic self lived alone in a ground floor apartment. And after a week, I struck gold.

I found this condemned house on the south side absolutely crawling with fleas. I collected samples wearing protective gear and sealed everything in airtight containers. But it all started with some harmless gossip. I mentioned today staff that I’d seen stray cats in the parking garage.

Made sure the rumors reached the night shift. Left a note on Margaret’s windshield about rats near her car. She started checking under her vehicle every night with a flashlight.

During one of Ben’s overnight procedures, I had 6 hours of solid alibi. That’s when I stried. I carefully placed fleainfested fabric deep inside her car’s ventilation system where she’d never think to check. I put eggs under the floor mats and in every crevice of her seats.

And for good measure, I soaked everything with synthetic flea pherommones to accelerate breeding.

Margaret came to work the next week, scratching her arms. By day two, she had visible welts. She tried to hide with long sleeves. And on day four, the fleas were jumping visibly in her car. She was practically clawing her skin off. She started wearing gloves all the time and sprayed herself with pesticide between rooms. Then one night, it finally happened.

She collapsed right outside the pediatric ward. Full anaphylactic shock. Her throat closed while she clawed at her neck. They rushed her to the ER, but it was too late. Her throat had closed completely and she’d gone too long without oxygen. Lol.

The doctors tried everything, but Margaret died right there in the same hospital where she’d killed Peanut. The official cause of death was anaphylactic shock from flea bites. That final night, the reaction was instant and fatal. Oops. And thanks to my little rumors, no one suspected a thing.