I knew I was in trouble, when I came down for breakfast and found the fog had rolled in on the house again. The last time, we got a worm. A meter in diameter. The head is usually upstairs, in the bathroom—you’ll spot it in the plumbing. It runs through the walls and on wet days flops out a window like a giant boudin. Quite the infestation. Today, the dog had fallen apart.
Thanking Christ for the programmable coffee pot, I headed to the porch to think and smoke. The fog inched back to its usual position along the tree-line. Good. I hadn’t time for the dog/fog situation. I flicked the cigarette into the wet grass. I had to meet a guy about a thing.
The boxer’s head was panting on the dining table. It’s smiling I thought, but my wife would say I anthropomorphize pets. Regardless, I placed her head by her torso which was still in the foyer in a wicker bed. For good measure, I tucked the neck stump into the collar. I hoped it would just heal somehow. Really though, it was more a cosmetic choice than a tourniquet. My effort earned me a lick on the hand. Next, I gathered the legs and stacked them on top.
I didn’t notice the missing tail until I spotted the nub jumping—wagging perhaps—around the kitchen floor. Eventually, it wedged under the stove and I dragged it out with a spatula and tossed it on the dog pile.
Back in the foyer, something oozed under the doorway. Fog again. It was growing, looking more and more like a flounder. Lopsided eyes blinked. I jumped on a chair. It inched across the Oriental rug towards the dog. She smiled again, face cracking, sending teeth and eyes everywhere.
Comments
Post a Comment