UF PRISM

It’s time for my midday meal.

It is always the same: under the tan table with streaky lines of oak, placed in a round steel bowl that bears my name, Rutherford. But Ford is what I’m called by; I abhor anything else. Everyone’s used to what’s familiar, and to go against it is as terribly torturous as the little metal cylinder that screeches the same as a whiny feline that’s been offended. 

I only hear the awful squeal a few times a month, when visitors come through the rusted door with stacks of those thin green papers clenched in usually grubby hands stained with dirt and grime.

Even I keep myself cleaner than that. Disgusting, honestly. How long does it take to clean the very things you eat with? 

Perhaps it’s hypocritical of me; I needn’t bother myself with that.

The meal is quickly eaten, as always. Only bits of brown are left behind like the little dots of crimson that decorate the wooden panels of our old home. I should eat more gracefully, or so I’m told when my empty bowl is snatched up and thrown into the ceramic basin next to the bed. 

Quite the mood He’s in. I suppose it’s one of those days where I’ll have my ears bled out by the little silver tool. 

For now, I’m granted mercy and called by mouth to come close. I stride over, circle around Him once, and sit on my rear. I receive an approving pat on the head. I’ve done well.

He goes through the instructions as he meanders off to the other room. I follow and observe. He rummages through thin glasses of liquid and containers of a putrid-smelling substance—smoky, thick, and suffocating. Normally, I whine and shove off, choosing instead to relax in my bed. Today, the odor is tolerable. 

Glass clinks and buckets thud as He stalks around the room. I don’t follow his hazardous movements. I hop, skip, and jump over to my usual corner, next to the rusted door.

This mat isn’t as soft as my bed. It’s slightly scratchy like a thin layer of wheat, but it’s comfortable enough to lay my head atop my legs. I close my eyes and fall asleep to His heavy gait, His boots marching across the floorboards and his heaping breaths released densely like smog.

 I’m woken rudely by the slam of the door next to me. I lift my head and watch as a stout man enters my space. His hair is disappearing faster than leaves in winter. He carries an arrogantly sophisticated demeanor, further cheapened by his tacky suit. The collar is frayed and his trousers are—to no surprise—stained with an unknown substance that I don’t intend to try and identify.

The male bears a shark’s smile, exchanging pleasantries with Him along with a tight handshake. The two move into the other room; I follow. 

The visitor glances over his shoulder, his wide grin faltering just the slightest bit. I flash a share of my own teeth; if his smile belongs to a shark, mine belongs to something that lurks much deeper in the shadows.

I circle around him once for good show before settling back at His side. 

The stranger asks if I’m needed. 

All he earns in return is His soft grin before He delves into the details. The male’s smile returns, having seemingly forgotten about my presence in the next instant. It’s amusing how quickly they turn a blind eye to danger in the presence of greed’s hunger.

My head is stroked ever so often as He talks, and the visitor nods and salivates. The man barks out returning jokes, hand slapping the table in an irritating rhythm. I’m barely soothed by His pets, the stranger’s snarks and chuckles grating on my ears in a far more piercing manner than His little cylinder.

My eyes follow a path down from the visitor’s scrunched up features, face red from exertion. He has no neck, hidden by a thick layer of fat. So unhealthy, his body. Round and full and ghastly even to witness. His very talking, walking—his breathing—is a waste of space.

I flinch when his hand slams again on the table. His grip on me tightens in warning when I grumble under my breath.

I keep analyzing the male, if only to occupy myself. His choice of wardrobe bears more flaws the closer I study it. The seams are practically bursting at the edges, as if he’d been forcibly threaded through a suit stolen off a much smaller corpse. 

I turn my gaze to Him beside me. The features on his face are of stone, head tilting incrementally to the left, eyes boring through our visitor. While the male blabbers, He only grunts out a few curt words.

Eventually, the visitor’s mouth shuts and a beautiful silence blankets over the table. Suddenly apprehensive, he reaches into his coat pocket and out comes a thick stack of wrinkled green papers. He takes out two more from himself before leaning back. 

I look up next to me; His lips twitch into a thin smile. He exudes satisfaction, His eyes trained on the offering from the male.

The chair at my feet grates against the floorboards as He gets up. He reaches the counter behind us, and from a locked box appears a concealed bag. It’s thrown onto the table.

I watch the male hesitate—for a mere second. Then, he’s a hungry pig, digging his snout into the bag, tearing it open. His eyes marvel at what’s inside, and his yellow teeth make an appearance again when his lips stretch wide from ear to ear. 

He howls out praises and thanks, grubby hands securing the bag closed. His nails are nibbled short, identical to the work of a street rat. Stumbling out of the chair, he yips and squeals in excitement. He moves towards the rusted door. 

I watch Him observe the man. Then his gaze narrows on the green papers. He plucks one, featherlight, and lifts it to the artificial sun in the ceiling’s wood. The green sheet is posed like that for some while. Then He drops the paper and looks down at me. He nods, tilting his head at the visitor. At last.

I move, legs standing me up as I stride. I’m not stopped by Him this time. 

The visitor waddles. He snorts. He cries out of joy. 

I sniff once. Then again; I follow the man, his putrid musk thick and fat and decaying. Viscous liquid drips from my mouth to the floorboards; more falls in a stream as my lips part. I pad to the door, eyes watching the male’s dirty hands reach for the handle, plump fingers of fat around little bones bending and clenching.

And then—I gain permission as that familiar feline shrill whips my ears. The rusted door opens only an inch before it slams shut again as a great pounding crunch pops under my teeth. Thick nectar of the boldest burgundy runs down my lips as I work into the greasy fat. 

A pig wails a galling shriek, but I focus on the task at hand. The first step is to work past the blubber. Then, I receive the reward of the thickest meat before landing on the most rigid section. I know I’m done when it snaps apart. 

I move onto the next branch. It takes longer than it should, but it’s reassuring that He doesn’t mind. Instead, He watches me patiently with a stone face.

Eventually, I finally am able to climb to the top. I smile at my work so far. Nectar drips out from my mouth, falling to mix with the clear liquid spilling from the two orbs aimed at me. These ones are dark oak, also with tiny streaks of other colors. They’re more interesting to study than the blue or green ones.

My eyes drop to the short lines of blubber below the protruding stub. They’re moving, curling incrementally and parting from one another. I growl when they uncover that yellow shine. Disgusting.

I bend and bite. Another crunch past multiple layers rewards me with a sludgy center, just slightly slicker than the wetness that coated my midday meal.

I pad away. I sit on my rear in front of Him.

I earn a small smile. 

“Good boy, Ford.”

I take a nap as a reward; I’m not interrupted this time.

When my eyes flutter open, a wonderful aroma fills my nose, and I follow. My open mouth drips liquid to the floor as I follow the scent under the tan table with streaky lines of oak. I see my name on my round steel bowl.

There are no more bits of brown from my earlier visit. Instead lies inside an indulgent pile of fat and meat, waiting patiently for my pleasure. 

It’s time for my extra meal.