WHAT'S LEFT OF CHESTER
“Here you go, boy!”
I dump the can of EatRite Kibble into Chester’s bowl.
His head obscures the food as it bobs with every chew.
I’ve only just sat down when the growling starts.
“Chester,” I say, waving a hand.
The growling slurs into hacking whines.
Wailing to screams.
Something snaps.
A wet explosion.
I run into the kitchen.
What’s left of Chester churns on the floor.
It shifts its attention to me.
My knife is too far to reach.
It climbs onto my back.
My hair wets with its licks.
The voice permeates my mind:
“I’m a good boy.”
