(Animal Abuse)²

Boingy’s cheek was still throbbing from the smack the night before, but like all good homemakers she learned to moved on.

“Hey momma!” Floppy-ears said dropping her school books on the kitchen table and pilfering a carrot from the carrot jar.

“Don’t fill up on carrots. I’m making stew.” Boingy stirred the stew. She knew her eyes were still red from crying.


“Oh, tell your brothers and sisters to wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You want me to tell papa, too?”

“He won’t be eating dinner with us tonight, baby.”

“Figures. He’s probably getting drunk again.” Floppy-ears’ words cut deep into Boingy, but she fought back the tears. “Momma, we all heard the yelling. He shouldn’t hit you. He’s an asshole.”

“Floppy-ears Michelle Von Rabbitstein! You know better than to use that word.”

“Yes’em, but he still is.”

“Don’t worry your floppy ears about that now. I stood up for myself today, and he won’t be back. Now tell the others to wash up, young lady. The Hasenpfeffer is almost done.”

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