EDITED
Nel hit the dog, and pressed two feet frantically on the brakes. The rear of her car fishtailed, leaving scorch marks on the road. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, she screamed inside, one hand held to her rapidly beating heart.
The car shuddered and stalled to a complete halt; she felt the right front tyre roll over the prone figure of the dog, “Oh shit.” she muttered aloud.
Trembling, she got out of the car, and on wobbly legs walked around to the other side of her Toyota 4Runner, clutching the open window in support. Oh Jesus. No. Saint's preserve me - I didn't mean to, she thought.
A neighbour came running out from his front garden, the running hose abandoned snaking and hissing water across the lawn, gloves flapping in his back jeans pocket, “Patronella! Jesus! Are you okay?” Concern was thick in his voice, and Nel heaved a great sigh.
“Bloody dog – just ran in front of me. . .” She trailed off, looking helplessly at the other neighbours who seemed to grow from out of the ground to stare at her. She clung to his arm.
“Poor bugger looks alive. . .” John bent down and fingered the dog’s collar, “Lassie.” He pursed his lips, “Very original.”
Nel bit the inside of her cheek, tasted blood and looked away from the mangled mess that used to be somebody’s pet, away from it’s accusing eyes, and frothing mouth of pink-tinged bubbles, “Oh John. . .”
John pattered her on the shoulder, “Let me turn off my garden hose before it drowns the roses, then I’ll take him for a trip to the vet.” He shook his head, “Maybe Dr. Stevenson can fix ‘er up.”
The dog started to whine weakly. A child across the road started crying. Nel felt shame wash over her. “Thank you John.” Nel said, and accepted the offered arm from one of the many gathering spectators, “Poor damn dog.”
* * *
Dr. Stevenson shook his head at the dying dog before him, “Sorry, John, but our four-legged friend is a goner. Pity.” He injected the dog with an enthusiasm that creeped John out.
Dr. Stevenson looked up suddenly at John, making the other man flinch, “Who’d you say hit the dog?”
John shifted uneasily under the intense gaze, “Patronella Sims.”
Stevenson curled his top lip up in a semblance of a smile; John thought it looked like a snarl.
“Okay. . .” John said, eager to escape from the veterinary clinic, “I’ll see you around then, Doc. Catcha later.”
The veterinarian turned his attention back to the dog, its blood slowly congealing on the cold metal slab. He softly stoked the dog’s flank; his fingers dragged clumps of torn flesh amid ragged skin and fur.
He brought his thumb and forefinger eyelevel, touching the tips together and pulling them apart to see the red sticky bridge of blood between them, his mind already ticking. Always ticking.
* * *
The candle light flickered pleasantly over the dinning table, illuminating bowls of thick meaty strew, and hand-sized portions of buttered bread. There was laughter at the other end of the dinner table. George Stevenson shifted in his chair.
Patronella leaned across the table conspiringly, “That stew is delicious, George.” She nudged her husband beside her.
“Yes. Very tasty.” The man offered, and swilled his wine around in his glass before toasting the host and chef, “You should have more dinner parties.”
Nel tilted her head sideways, “Though, really. . . I can’t quite distinguish the meat. . .”
Dr. Stevenson hid a smile, and dunked a chunk of bread into his stew, before answering the unspoken question, “You’d never guess.” Underneath the table, he played with a heart-shaped dog tag in his hand, running his thumb over the inscription, “Lassie.”
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GRRR!!!!! - i typed out this into here.... and then it asked for my password.... serves me right for not typing it in word in the first place! *sigh*
Screeched is an onomatopoeia, not a verb. 
It makes the piece feel more personal and powerful.
