kimu again

Kimu has me.

He drops me to the mud. His teeth smell of blood. My blood.

I drop Rowdy. My teeth smell of blood, too.

For a long time, no words come, just panting, coughing, panting some more.

Nothing from the puppy. I shove him with my paw, nudge him with my nose.

Nothing.

I look at Kimu, his fur spiked, his eyes wild, different, unknowable.

“I guess they didn’t shoot you?” I say.

“They tried,” he says, eyes on the puppy.

“Thank you for . . .” I trail off.

He glances at me. “Didn’t do it for you.” A pause. “Did it for me.”

With his right front paw, he claws at the puppy. At Rowdy.

“Hey,” I say without really thinking. Or registering the size of his paw. Or realizing that he’s drooling, just a little.

“He, uh.” I put my paw, my puny pathetic loser paw, on Rowdy too. “He’s my . . . my nephew, and well, I—”

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental sort, Bob.”

“I’m not. Just, you know how it is.”

“No, actually, I don’t know. I’m a wild animal. Not a pet.”

“Still.” I clear my throat and remind myself that rolling over and peeing myself is not an acceptable option. “Still and all, he’s scrawny, might even be dead, who knows? You got better breakfasts at the park.”

I recognize all too well the look he gives me. The look of sadness and loss and anger, the look of someone who will never forgive the world.

He’s running with the puppy dangling from his jaws before I even know what’s happened.