Читать книгу The Christmas MEGAPACK ® - Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Страница 18

DOG EAT DOG: A CHRISTMAS TALE, by Robert Reginald

It was the winter the dogs came back. I was down at the su­permarket rummaging through the remains of rusty old cans, looking for any food that was remotely salvageable, when I heard the distant barking. I knew I had only a couple of minutes be­fore they’d be here, want­ing to invite me to dinner, so I dragged a few shelves and boxes out in front of the main door to provide a barri­cade, pulled out the shotguns, and patiently waited.

There were about ten mutts in all, led by a mangy old pit bull-cross, whom I blasted as soon as he came into range. He skidded to a dead stop. The others milled about, uncertain just what to do, and I took the time to pick out a young one, center him in my sights, and pull the trigger. The others promptly bolted. I slit the throat of the half-grown pup, slung him over my bike, and headed on home.

They were happy to see me.

“Geez, Charlie,” George said, “that smells really good! Ya gonna fix it tonight?”

“Yep,” I responded, “and some other stuff, too. Today’s a special day, boys, and we’re goin’ to have ourselves a real feast.”

So I dug around in my larder, and uncovered a few apples and dates and dried figs and carrots and spuds, plus a pretty good can of beans, and got the pot going over the open fire, slicing off tender strips of juicy young dog into the mix, plus pepper and garlic and a few other things.

A cold wind was howling outside, one of the periodic Santa Anas that blew down from the desert, but within our little house the fire was hot, the company good, and the odor of roasting beast was begin­ning to fill the room with savory scents.

It was ready about the time the sun went down.

Then they gathered all ’round—George and Jax and Theo and Kate and Mel and Sue and Don and Ceel and Beck and Bert and Jule and the rest—and I ladled out bits of meat and veggies and fruit to each of them, and poured myself a cup of brandy. Afterwards I spun them stories of the old days, when man still walked upon the earth and dogs were pets and the houses were full of people celebrating the holi­day season.

“Kinda like us,” George noted.

“’Deed it is,” I agreed. I raised my glass.

“Merry Christmas, folks,” I said.

Outside the wind continued to protest our presence, but inside, we were safe and warm and content. They snuggled up close to me, while I watched the flames shifting and moving in their unfathomable patterns.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” George squeaked.

Life was very good.

[Another adventure of Charlie and his friends is chronicled in the author’s story, “After All.”]