Jared, or Hannah has a messed up mind

Jared often fantasized about kicking dogs as he passed them on the street. He hoped it wasn't a sign of a deep perversion, but he was pretty certain of his sanity. Jared had managed to convince himself that he wasn't serious, that he wouldn't actually get any enjoyment from punting a daschund like a football, but he couldn't shake the thought. It actually kind of sickened him, the process he went through when encountering a dog. He watched the dog and watched the owner and tried to imagine. What sort of noise would the dog make? Could it land on its feet? He grinned as he imagined the shock on the owners face; he considered the possibility that they might let go of the leash and let the dog scamper off. One time he had passed a girl with a tiny chihuahua and accidentally laughed out loud thinking about the chihuahua soaring through the air on the arc of his kick.
He didn't dislike dogs. He had owned one once, actually. A terrier-type black and gray mutt named Henry who was already 8 years old when Jared was born, so by the time Jared reached age 10, Henry was already a very old dog and he died. But Jared remembered a few idyllic fall afternoons, jumping around with Henry in muddy leaf piles. They had been good friends and Jared hated to imagine anyone doing any harm to Henry, even 15 years later.
Jared was sure that he could not actually go through with his daydream. He didn't know what kinds of animal cruelty laws he would be breaking, let alone how to deal with a conscience or react to the insults he would expect to be hurled at him by angry pet lovers. He didn't even know if he could kick hard enough to do anything worth noticing. He had always been terrible at sports, his coordination was off and he had no idea what level of force it would take to boot a howling puppy to the curb. His best reference point was the one year he had spent playing soccer in middle school. The coach was constantly yelling commands at him, "Connect, Miller! Run it down, come ON, keep up with the rest of the team, don't just stand there! Aim when you kick!" He had tried, but he didn't care for the running around and keeping score and falling down all the time.
While Jared was out walking one day, the weather was pleasant and he felt stronger than ever that he wanted to go through with his dream. He found himself stopped at a crosswalk with a squat middle-aged woman holding a brown schnauzer on a nylon leash. He stood to her right; she was looking to the left at the traffic coming on. He stuck out his left foot, clad in a dirty white Nike sneaker and positioned it against the dog's warm underbelly to mark where he wanted to aim. The dog twitched, and the woman felt the leash tug and stared at Jared, his foot still pressed against the schnauzer's stomach. He blushed. "Sorry. I...don't know what I was thinking." She kept staring, suspicious. The light changed and Jared rushed out into the street, mortified. He was oblivious to the too-fast bicycle coming from his right until it hit his foot and sent a sharp pain up his leg. He cursed and watched as the bike tried to brake but slammed into the dog anyway, rubber wheels meeting matted fur with a screech and howl.
Jared gawked. He gagged at the blood and hair on the bike tires and listened to the biker stammer apologies to the woman, whose hands were fluttering around the thrashing body of her dog as she began to cry. Jared gagged again at the dog's body and then turned and ran into the McDonald's on the corner. He went into a bathroom stall and retched into the toilet, holding onto the bowl for a few moments and thinking of Henry and how he hated himself. After he was done, he sat on the grimy floor of the stall and was silent. Then he began to chuckle. Jared thought about the dog and the woman and the blood on the bike and had a good, long laugh.