The dogs had gone to the dogs. It was the middle of the night, even so, that was all. Sleeping; the neighbors were still. (The radio was – in its merry midnight way – still crooning and cradling the empty ears of the elderly and terminally ill.) Even so, the dogs had gone to the dogs, the Daschund had come up against the Saint Bernard, so it was time to let the animals start sleeping inside.

X. had always looked the runt sternly in the eye and said outside you go, out side you go, out, out! and the Daschund would move its miserable hind legs to the edge of the yard, bark on its back, before the situation was clear. Resolve took hold and it merely looked miserably at my gaze through the window. Then, down, the blinds would come!, down! and X.’ arms would settle around S.’ growing midriff, throw a fluff far away from his belly or two; so the dogs would silently ride that wave of disdain all the way to the henhouse to, with the chickens, sleep.

The doctors said I’m Sorry that day as S.’ shoulders became X.’ home. You could not ignore it. It bowled you over. It had been a living thing, and then it had not. It was breathing and fine, until it just stopped. In the fire Shelley conjured up her breathing son. In the fire; the birth certificate. The smell staggered you.

The smell staggered you. Littered with shedding, the kennels. S. had sold all the undersized clothing and unnecessary technology; even so, it took a lot of money and even more time to get the Daschund home. And the carpet piss soaked in an instant. So the fop would be kept outside; the house still smelled of incense; it had a good run, it was loved; its claws automatically clipped each day on the concrete.

The dogs had gone to the dogs. It was the middle of the night, even so, that was all.

S.’ was sleeping in the dying light, dreaming in the prying night. Images all in a pretty little line: chicken coming out the oven well roasted, well-set plates on the table, beautiful heads of broccoli ready for swallowing with the wine. After a while, with knife well set into perfect-cooked flesh, the chicken seemed to grow eyes, to come alive, to cry and wail, and then it was growing a groin, a human groin, before it shuddered to a halt stillborn on the table.

Outside, the dogs barked at the Saint Bernard on the other side of the tracks. S.’ eyes opened still burning with the image of a baby, swallowed piece by piece by piece, prostrate in their bellies, digesting, digesting.

Sleeping; the neighbors were still. (The radio was – in its merry midnight way – still crooning and cradling the empty ears of the elderly and terminally ill.) Even so, the dogs had gone to the dogs, the Daschund had come up against the Saint Bernard, so it was time to let the animals start sleeping inside.

In the bed S.’ drifted soon after X.’ had gone first. Bored of the carpet, the living room Daschund became an explorer. Some far away land, the bedroom; even so, it was found. Toe by toe and and limb by limp and inch by inch and finger by finger and hair by hair the Daschund chewed the couple up. They slept even so, prostrate in the belly of the beast, digesting, digesting.

And when sunlight came knocking at the blinds in the morning, nobody let it in. The little Daschund sat patiently at the door, ready for the postman, a couple locked in coitus in its bowels.