David
McKnight
Hour
2
Barnes
The
Dog
It
lies, a comatose body sprawled in an inert mass upon the floor, unflinching
even as feet pound around it. Its smooth black fur gives off a bright sheen,
glistening as the sunlight from the nearby window bounces off the beast’s
chest. The question is asked—is it alive?—and answered by the slow, repetitive
sighing of the stomach. Through the window, a bipedal figure appears,
completing a daily jogging routine; in response, the quadruped opens its maw
and emits a diminutive warning, a pathetic indication of its fierce wild heritage.
In truth, this is the only indication that this veritable acme of complacence’s
genetic roots lie with ferocious hunters: this dormant sausage is no more
intimidating than a pet rock, its life about as sanguinary as a potato’s. The
jogger moves away; content, the barker drifts back into its domain of
somnolence. Hours pass; the creature does not care. No other discernible
movement appears until, eventually, an eyelid reluctantly pries itself open to
reveal a drowsy black orb beneath, as devoid of color as the being is of
energy. The stygian sphere swivels to center upon the observer, revealing the
innermost wants of this glutton within its core: a cookie.
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