The Dinner Guest - Chapter 4: Abita's Incident

They forgot to feed me.

The dinner guest came promptly late, holding a six-pack of shiny beer cans in his hand, giving her a hug longer than my Love ever gave, with more groping too. The guest wore a dark, glossy jacket that smelled delicious. I barked a demand at him, proclaiming, “What sort of beast are you wearing over your shoulders? I demand to know for the Future’s sake!” She shushed me, slapping my nose. “Sorry, Scott,” she said, “Abita doesn’t like strangers.” Then she led the group to the dining room. The guest was last to go. When he passed me he kicked me hard in the ribs. I proclaimed, “That is one, sir. Two more will get you eaten.” The guest smirked and whistled, walking away.

During their meal, I sat under the table looking for scraps. The guest was a vigorous consumer. While She and my Love ate politely and in silence, the guest ate like a walrus. His mustache was full of the detritus of cooked animals, my brethren. The crumbs of baked goods spilled on the floor, disgusting bits that not even my brother would lap up. The guest gave off the stench of possum and roses, his shoes like spoiled milk. He drank vigorously from the shiny cans, finishing them in three massive gulps. I would assume he had some St. Bernard in him. When I asked them this, he kicked me under the table. I proclaimed again, “That is two, sir. One more and I shall eat you.” He swung again but missed. She called me to her and petted me, asking me to remain quiet during their eating ritual. I replied that I would comply with the commands of my Love. Asking him, he did not respond, merely glancing at me and sighing. Poor Love! He was not enjoying this food! I nuzzled up to his legs and sighed, licking his thighs. He batted me away like a fly. I departed, feelings hurt, into my corner and cried.

They forgot to feed me.

When the guest finished his drink, his process of disposal was fairly complex for a human. After draining the last liquid from the shiny can, licking the opening and peering at She suggestively, he brought the can to his forehead. With a great exhalation of gas from his mouth, he crushed the can into his forehead, creating a neat little, shiny metal bundle. “Fire in the hole,” he declared, and threw the can directly at me. This happened twelve times during the food ceremony. I snarled at him, swearing great oaths of anger and hatred. She laughed and told me to settle down. I snapped back, “You are not my master, woman. Only he is.” But my Love remained quiet, staring at his food, silent. I sighed and remained in the corner.

The meal was over and their party relocated to their sitting room. I followed, curious as to the manner in which our guest would sit himself. He must have been a powerful being to put my Love in a deep trance of silence, for my normally boisterous and loving man had been reduced to the demeanor of an idiot boy by this man. While in the sitting room they conversed for a time, the man sharing wild stories of sexual conquests and transsexual strippers. I did not know the stripper term before, and he made sure to define the word in all its varieties while pantomiming the performance of said person. After each story, he slapped his knee and cackled maniacally as She gave a polite laugh and my Love sat there silently steaming.

Despite my lack of nourishment for the evening, I had to go outside. I scratched at the door. She said, “Oh damn, Abita has to go out. Come on, girl.” She fetched that Leash they use to punish me for my natural urges, and proceeded to let me outside. The guest interceded, saying, “I’ll let her out. It’s the least I could do.” His speech was slurred and he stumbled a bit. She was hesitant to allow him such an honor, but complied after a short delay. He took me outside.

I did my business in the usual manner: Four steps forward, three to the side, sixteen forward, two back, turn in a circle, then three to the other side and I’m there. The guest followed as I practiced my ritual, cursing me with impatience. When I was finished and I had wiped myself clean on the fresh dirt, I turned towards my home and proceeded. I went as far as the Leash would allow before the strand went taut. I was stuck and the guest was not moving forward with me. I turned and glowered at him, barking, “Come you fat pig! I must get some food inside.” The guest had a terrible glint in his eyes. He stared at me and I shuddered. I was frozen with fear, for this man’s gaze had the hypnotic allure of the Vampires of Saturn 5. He stalked up to me slowly, bending down to pet me, looking me in the eye. He licked his lips and grinned, muttering a question. I could not hear him entirely through the slurs, but the gist involved “taking a mustache ride on the Scott highway.” He forced me around and kicked me lightly, demanding I go to the ground so he could “have some fun with doggy.” I replied, “Sir, you have kicked me three times. I have given you three warnings. I will now eat you.”

He slapped me on the head. I lunged at his throat, taking him down and biting out his windpipe. He gasped, silently, and wiggled on the ground, his mouth moving in unspoken pleas. I grabbed his neck again and bit through more of his flesh. I clamped on like this until he stopped moving.

They forgot to feed me. So I ate.