ROB ROSEN

Rob Rosen was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1966. He spent his childhood in the suburbs of New Jersey, his teen years in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and much of his early adulthood in Atlanta, Georgia, where he graduated from Emory University with a B.S. in Biology and then worked for eight years as a Clinical Biochemist. When he turned thirty, he packed it all in, sold his car, broke his lease, gave up his career and followed his dreams to San Francisco, where he is now an Office Guru. So much for that expensive education. His first book, "Sparkle", was published in 2001 and his short stories appear regularly throughout the web.

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TUNNEL VISION

     This time he was going to do it. Walk right on in there and tell her. Straight out. No more pussyfooting around it. It was over. Had been over for a long time now. They were just going through the motions now. Out of habit. A bad habit. But it was time to kick it, once and for all. Besides, he figured, it would be the best for both of them. Least that's what he told himself. What he always told himself. He just had to do it quick and get it over with. Like pulling off a Band-Aid. It would hurt for a split second, but, in time, the wound would heal and leave just a trace of a scar. He wasn't expecting the trembling beneath his legs, though.
      He'd been watching Jen in the kitchen when the earthquake hit. A big one, this time. Sent everything rattling around and then knocked half of the dishes on the countertop crashing to the tile floor below. The clock on the living room wall fell a few seconds later. CRASH! The suddenness of the noise was more disconcerting than the motion beneath his feet. He'd been through this before, though not nearly as bad; so he wasn't all that shocked. And, thankfully, it was over almost as quick as it had begun. A moment later, he was again left in silence with the reminders of the quake noticeably scattered around him. While he made his way to see her, the picture they'd bought at the flea market a week prior came hurtling down and cracked him hard on his skull.
      "Patrick, you okay?" he heard her shout. "Pat?"
      Nothing. He tried to respond, but the words got stuck in his throat.
      Though his vision was now blurred, he could see her as she poked her head out of the kitchen, shouting louder, "Pat, you there? That was a bad one this time."
      Again, he could say nothing. He could hear the sounds of the ambulances and fire trucks racing somewhere in the distance, but they seemed to be fading in the distance.
      That's when he saw her notice him on the ground. Then she came running over. He could feel the blood trickling from the wound in his head and hated the thought that she was seeing him like that. But that thought was quickly replaced by another one. The light was fading and so was her voice.
      "Pat, can you hear me?" he barely heard her say, as she leapt to his side.
      But nothing. Not a sound. Not a breath. Not a flicker of movement.
      Now Pat couldn't hear a thing. But he could see. A bright light. A tunnel of light, actually. Pulling him down and though. Quick. Quicker than he'd ever traveled before. Quick as, well, light.
      He touched down an indeterminate time later in a place he vaguely recognized. A room that he hadn't seen in what seemed like forever. The walls were papered with brightly colored trains and circus animals. The bed in the corner was impossibly small, but not too small for a child of four or so. His bed, he suddenly remembered, from when he was about that exact age. Perhaps the first clear memory he had. He'd spent a lot of time in that room. In that bed. Alone and daydreaming.
      And when he looked closer he could see something stirring from under the covers. A sandy haired boy. He knew who it was in an instant. Recognized the face from all those photos his mother kept around her house. A face so similar to his own, yet so vastly different. It had been his, at one point, so many years earlier.
      Was I ever that young? He thought.
      Of course he had been. Still, it seemed so distant a period in his life. So much like another lifetime that it resembled more a story he had heard than his actual childhood. It was too far removed from his current existence to be associated with the person he was today. The dots simply didn't connect. But they did, as he was soon to see.
      That first dot, twenty years earlier, was a painful reminder of his boyhood. Despite the brightly colored room, he knew his life was drab and colorless, even back then. The divorce had left his mother shattered. And with the crash came the distancing. Leaving a father a city apart and a mother a million miles away; though, in reality, only a few feet separated them. The other side of the wall the boy faced might as well have been an immeasurable chasm, both just as impossible to traverse. Both vast and empty and lifeless.
      He remembered trying to reach out to her, but the shouts and the tears went unnoticed. So the young Pat sat alone in his room and let his mind wander. To far away places. Distant lands filled with magical creatures and people who cared about him. Places filled with laughter and joy. Pat remembered those places as he watched himself lying on that bed staring at the wall. He always thought he liked being alone. But seeing himself like that made him realize how sad he really was.
      And then the wall started to glow. Soon it burned bright and white. And the tunnel presented itself again. Sucking him in and down and through once more. Pulling him away from the boy he yearned to hold and to assure that everything would be all right. Though he knew it wouldn't be. Not really. How could it ever be all right? He thought, as he was whisked to Lord knows where.
      The tunnel of light opened on to another room.
      I know this place, too.
      Different paper. All brown. No bright pictures. Bigger bed. Different house. But still his house. The house he and his mother shared with the man she married next, Jack. Jack brought his mother back to life, but not back to Pat. Still alone, Pat's daydreaming took form on paper. The creatures from his head now stared back up at him from the drawing book his mother had given him to keep him occupied and out of her hair.
      Page after page, enormous animals with impossible fangs and strange, dreamy eyes filled the book. Even floating up high, Pat could see the spark of talent that would prove invaluable later on in his life. But still the same sad, lonely boy lay on the bed, doodling away. Then the boy turned up the radio on his nightstand to drown out the noise his parents were making. The shouting had started soon after the marriage. The boy had grown accustomed to it. Eventually, he would wander out into the backyard to escape it completely. Perhaps that's where his affinity for nature started. After all, the creatures he drew needed places to live and breathe and hide in.
      Pat watched as the white page of the book on the bed started to glow and then spin and then open up, creating another vortex to suck him into. And down he went. Fast and smooth. Pat hated the scenes he was seeing, but liked the ride. Enjoyed the easy, gliding motion. He wished life could be so smooth. His life, especially.
      The next occurrences of events appeared differently than the first. He simply slowed down this time, passing through his life instead of making complete stops along the way. Pat saw himself age in jumps and starts. Saw himself go to school, where he stayed on the outskirts of the other children's play. Watched as the art improved from year to year. And saw his mother go from Jack to Steve to Bill. He too had little luck with the opposite sex. Though not nearly as proficient as his mother, he had occasional luck with women. The luck, sadly, always ran out after a month or so. Pat was easily bored. Or perhaps prone to drifting. Either way, year by year, he held little hope of ever settling down. Of ever not being alone.
      Next, he watched as he floated over himself while out on dates.
      What was wrong with that one? Man, she was nice. Just look how she stares into my eyes. So young and in love. But why do I look bored?
      That seemed to always be the case. Pat was forever running from or to one relationship after another. Like mother like son. Both achieved the identical outcomes. Neither was ever really happy. Except in Pat's art.
      That's where he shined. Stood out from the rest. Was overwhelmingly accepted. He even made a nice living at it. Pat watched as his art grew larger and more detailed. And went from paper to canvas and onto gallery walls. He hovered over patrons who smiled and pointed at his work. The creatures never failed to illicit a comment. And that's when he came upon Jen. Saw her staring intently at one of his works. Watched as he turned the corner and encountered her for the first time.
      I forgot how pretty she was that first day.
      They talked and laughed. She commented on his talent. He asked her out. Three months later, they were living together. A first for Pat. It terrified him, but he acted on impulse and moved his meager belongings into her apartment without giving it much thought.
      The tunnel ended at the flea market where they had found a used, early work of Pat's. They both thought it funny to find his art there and bought it on a whim, hanging it in the living room so they could stare at it while they sat together. In truth, it brought him more comfort to stare at it than at her.
      Look how she looks at my work and smiles. Such a nice smile she has. But why aren't I smiling? I should be smiling. I want to be smiling.
      And then the light grew even more intense and spread all around him. Engulfing him. Warming him as it pushed him up, up, up and out. His eyes opened and he gasped for air. Jen was kneeling over him, her eyes filled with tears. He watched as she realized he was staring at her. Saw her go from sad, to startled, to elated in a split second. He smiled back up at her.
      "How long have I been out?" he asked her.
      "About a minute. The worst minute of my life," she responded, smiling at him and kissing him gently on his forehead.
      It only took a minute?
      "What happened?" he asked.
      She pointed to the picture. "Earthquake."
      And then he understood what had happened. Remembered where he had been heading when it hit and what he was intending to do when he got there. Almost said it before he recalled everything he had seen. It flashed before his eyes again and in an instant he knew it would be a mistake. He wasn't doomed to repeat his mother's mistakes, or his own, for that matter. It might have taken an act of God to make him realize it, but better late than never, he figured. His art had brought them together the first time; maybe it's what brought him back to her again.
      There was indeed a light at the end of the tunnel. He just had to go through it first in order to see that it was there. Now he intended to bask in it.

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SHUT YOUR EYES AND PRAY

     Marlin sat on the corner of Harrison and Seventh and stared up at the highway overpass that generally provided him protection from the elements. Since it was neither raining nor particularly sunny that day, he opted for the great outdoors of the gray patch of cement nestled between the burnt out warehouse and the street. Though, for all intents and purposes, pretty much anywhere he found himself was outdoors and never really all that great. Actually, he couldn't remember a time where he had a real roof over his head or he felt anything but tired, hungry, and beaten down.
      Then again, it had been a long time since he tried. To remember that is. He pretty much tended to live in the moment, as the moment was all he had. He had lost everything else years ago. Too many years to count. Too many to even allow himself to consider. Life under an overpass was miserable enough without thinking of what might have been. Or worse yet, what actually had been.
      What the hell, he thought to himself. It couldn't hurt to at least try. Maybe there was a good memory nestled in there somewhere that would bring a smile to his face. Though he'd practically forgotten how to smile anymore either. The nickels and dimes tossed his way caused him more despair than relief, certainly too little to bring enough happiness to crack even the semblance of a smile. They just reminded him how much more he needed in order to afford a decent meal, or any meal for that matter. Anyway, he shut his eyes good an tight and prayed for a memory that would bring him even a brief respite from his life.
      But all he saw was the endless black void behind his lids. Not a glimmer of anything else. No memories hiding anywhere to bring him even an ounce of joy. But just as he got ready to open his eyes to the even bleaker world in front of him, he spotted a tiny speck of light in the distance of his inner vision. It was so minuscule that he almost discounted it as one of those floaters he frequently saw if he moved his eyes back and forth really quick. Though they were generally much darker. And this was definitely light. A light that he noticed was starting to grow.
      "Fuck," he said to himself. "That can't be good."
      Still, he kept his eyes shut tightly and watched in amazement as the light grew and grew, until all that he could see was the brightest of white light. And then in the light he could discern certain shades of gray. And these changed to fuzzy outlines of objects. And these in turn started to take on concrete shapes. Shapes he could recognize. A table. A chair. And then a wall and a ceiling. Then the grayness shifted into colors. Muted reds and greens and browns. Then nothing but color and the only white came from the low-watt light overhead.
      "Wait, I know this place."
      At hearing his own voice, he opened his eyes and he was no longer on the sidewalk by the overpass out in broad daylight. He was back in his apartment. The one he'd lived in last. Before the overpass. He looked around at the old, beaten up furniture: the black and white television; the couch that folded out into his bed; the nicked and dinged end table with the alarm clock he'd had as a child; all his belongings that fit snugly within the one room apartment that was far, far away from the overpass. And though it all looked old, threadbare, and as beaten up as he felt inside, it was a hell of a lot better than the cardboard box he had grown sadly accustomed to.
      "A ceiling," he said, as he looked up. "How long has it been? Five, six years?"
      He walked around the small apartment and admired his few, meager belongings. Remembered how he had to leave them all there. He couldn't pay the rent anymore, and couldn't take any of it with him. All he could carry were a few sets of clothes in a duffle bag. When he looked again at the end table, he knew what would be in the drawer if he opened it. He walked over and proved himself right. It was just where he had left it.
      It was a cheap, glass pipe. Funny how something so small could do so much damage, he thought. He lifted it up and could smell the residue. Felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He hadn't been so close to it in a long time. Thought he'd gotten over the craving. Guessed he'd never really get over that. The matches were right where he had left them as well.
      "Maybe for old times sake?" he said.
      But before he could put flame to glass, a pounding on the door startled him and he dropped the pipe, shattering it into innumerable pieces.
      "Open up, Marlin," came a voice from the other side of the door. "Pay up or get out."
      He knew his landlord's voice. Had heard those words so many times that it was practically etched in his brain. The pounding continued. The landlord's voice got louder. Marlin kicked at the broken glass around his feet and once again shut his eyes tight and prayed the landlord would go away. Prayed the pipe would stop calling to him. Prayed for that white light again. And then he saw it. Just a speck in the black, but growing larger.
      "Hurry up," Marvin whispered aloud. "Hurry. Hurry. Hurry."
      And the light grew with each plea until it once again filled the space behind his eyelids. Until it fairly blinded Marlin. And then, as fast as it had appeared, it receded to reveal yet another room. A room far removed from the previous one. This one was not Marlin's, but it did look fairly familiar.
      "I've been here before too, but when?" he said to himself. And just as he said it, he knew. Spotted the pictures on the solid marble mantelpiece. "My boss's apartment." Marlin's last real boss, to be exact. Before everything fell into ruin. Before the pipe became his boss.
      "He never should have shown me where he left his house keys. Should have kept them locked in his drawer," Marlin said aloud, as he cased the apartment. "Who needs this much…this much stuff? He'll never miss it." Marlin pocketed some of the smaller items. The gold and silver objects that he was sure wouldn't be missed. At least not right away. After all, Marlin needed his own stuff. Needed it as sure as he needed the air he breathed. He felt the pangs of guilt almost immediately, but the need to fill the pipe outweighed all other concerns.
      Just as he filled his pockets with the last of the trinkets, he heard a pair of feet coming up the steps. He dove behind the couch just as the door flung open. The smell of his ex-boss's stale cigars wafted over him and filled him with an awful sense of dread and nausea. Almost at once he recalled why he had been fired. Why this man was his ex-boss. Why he couldn't get a job after that one.
      He shut his eyes tight and prayed that his boss wouldn't find him there, hiding behind the couch, his pockets filled to the brim with the objects that surely wouldn't be missed. But of course they would be. How could they not? The only thing that would be missed was the life Marlin left behind the day he got caught crouching behind the couch, tears streaming down his face, valuables spilling out of his pockets.
      Marlin shut his eyes and prayed not to get caught. Not to be found behind that couch with his boss's valuables that were sure to be missed. Wished that he'd never seen those keys in the first place. But he had seen them, taken them, used them. Still, with his eyes closed he couldn't see any of that. Could only see the blackness of it all. The endless void. And there it was again. The speck of light in the distance. Barreling at him like a train. Growing and spreading. Filling the void. And then just as quickly as it had come, it faded to reveal yet a third room.
      This room filled Marlin with a feeling of warmth he hadn't felt in countless years. The furniture was worn, but sturdy. Passed down from his own parents. He remembered their joy in giving it to him and his new wife, Leslie.
      Leslie. He hadn't thought of her for almost as long as he hadn't thought of that apartment they shared. She'd stuck by him the longest. Far longer than Marlin deserved. But even she couldn't compete with the pipe. He sure wished she'd tried, though. Wished he'd tried, as well. But both had given up and went their separate ways. His way lead him under the overpass. Hers to Lord knows where. He lost track years ago. Lost track of her life as well as his own. But there he was, miraculously back in that apartment they loved so much.
      He walked over and sat on the couch that once belonged to his mother and her mother before that. It was still firm and he bounced up and down on it, remembering the way he had done so as a child. His mother always scolded him for doing just that, but he'd always ignored her. Ignored so many of her warnings. Maybe if he'd only listened to more of what she'd said he wouldn't be in the mess he was in.
      And it sure felt nice sitting there like that. A hell of a lot more comfortable than the sidewalk. And it smelled like heaven. Like his wife, actually. He reached for a pillow and inhaled deeply. Lilacs and gardenias. His wife's perfume. He always said she smelled like a country garden. "When's the last time I smelled a garden? Or saw one?" he said to himself, as he eased himself into the couch.
      "Is that you, Marlin?" he heard from the next room.
      It sounded like his wife. "Yes, Dear. Just me." He hadn't heard that voice in so long. He'd forgotten how she sounded. Like an angel.
      "Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up."
      "Dinner? Wash up? When's the last time I washed up to eat? When's the last time I had a home cooked dinner, for that matter?"
      "What's that, Marlin? You say something?" Leslie asked, as she opened the door from the kitchen and stood there before him.
      He'd completely forgotten how lovely she was. And so young. And there was that smell again. Like a garden. He breathed in and looked at his wife in amazement. "You're so beautiful," he said to her. She smiled and looked at him quizzically.
      "You okay, Marlin?"
      "Never better," he said, and stood up to hug his wife. "Never better."
      He smiled, the first smile in so many years. And he stood, frozen in place and time, as he shut his eyes tightly and prayed that he could stay that way forever.
      And that's how they found him. Sitting on the sidewalk, just to the side of the overpass. His face locked in a smile, like he'd just seen the most beautiful thing in the whole world. Which, truly, he had.

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EAT PETE

     Mary Beth awoke with a start.
      "What the fu…," she said, groggily.
      She looked around and realized immediately that it had been a dream. But what a strange dream it was. Stranger than most, to be sure. Not necessarily a nightmare; more of a disturbance. After all, it's not often you hear a voice in your head telling you to, "Eat Pete". Least that's what Mary Beth thought she heard. It did sound like that, but the message was coming in faintly like a low howl. "Eeeeaaat Peeeete," it repeated in her addled brain, almost too silently too hear. Unfortunately, not silently enough. She heard it all right, and the thought put an unease in her, the likes of which she had never felt before.
      Pete was her neighbor Mrs. O'Reilly's dog. And no, Mary Beth didn't exactly care for Pete, but she didn't want him dead either. "Do I?" she asked herself. "Well, I definitely don't want to eat him, that's for sure. Yuck." Still, the thought stuck with her throughout the day; kind of like a toothache that kept pounding ever so slightly in her head. Just barely discernable, but there nonetheless.
      When she returned home, she was exhausted and rattled. Voices, she had read and heard about, usually came from either: God, Satan, a spirit, or a soon-to-be demented brain. She didn't like the thought of hearing from any of them.
      "Maybe it was just a dream," she tried to convince herself, as she quickly downed two consecutive shots of Bailey's Irish Cream. "Though it sure did sound like something or someone outside my own head." Mary Beth shook the thought from her mind and stared out her kitchen window.
      Pete was staring back at her from the lawn next to her driveway. He was an all black Pug. Black as deep, dark night. And drooling, as was his habit. Drooling and snorting. "Gross," Mary Beth uttered. "Why couldn't there be a nice Lab over there? They don't snort, do they?" But what she was thinking was that it would be harder to cook a Lab, or eat one, for that matter. Pete the Pug would easily fit into one of her large cooking pots. Just like a medium-sized chicken. Would probably taste like chicken too, Mary Beth thought. "Doesn't everything?"
      Again, she shook the idea out of her head and walked away from the window and over to the freezer to remove some meat for dinner. She took out some hamburger patties, carefully avoiding the chicken. "I just need a vacation," she said, as she started to prepare her dinner. "Or a good night's sleep." Though by then the thought of sleep fairly terrified her.
      Yet, three shots later, and with her stomach full of beef, she warily drifted off into slumber. She dreamt that she was running though a kennel with a meat cleaver in her hand and a possessed look on her face. But no voices. Least not in the dream. The voice didn't come until just before she woke up. It moaned across her synaptic nerves and rattled her to the quick. "Eeeeaaat Peeeete. Eeeeaaat Peeeete. Eeeeaaat Peeeete." The sound echoed in an otherwise blank state of post-sleep/pre-wakedom.
      "Godamnit!" she yelled as she consciously realized she was hearing the voice again.
      Mary Beth threw herself out of bed and rushed to the kitchen for some coffee. "What the fuck is going on?" she asked, as she poured the java into a cup that she grasped with her shaking hands. Just then, she looked up and out her window. Pete was standing on the lawn staring back at her. Just standing and staring. Standing, staring, drooling, and snorting. Snorting like the little devil he was.
      "I hate you, Pete," Mary Beth said, and Pete let off with a series of yapping barks. "Fuck you, Pete," Mary Beth responded and walked away from the window.
      The rest of the day went by in a blur. "Eeeeaaat Peeeete," frequently reverberated in her brain, but it was her own voice she was hearing this time. Mary Beth knew that couldn't be a good sign.
      She finished her day in a befuddled haze and returned home. She bypassed the kitchen, the kitchen and its large pots, and headed instead for the bathroom, with its medicine cabinet and sleeping pills. "Maybe I can medicate the noise out," she said as she downed three little, blue tablets. At least that's what she prayed for.
      Then she got undressed and climbed into bed. She tried to think of good, clean thoughts. Of pretty flowers and white sand beaches. No dogs, no kennels, no cleavers, and no drool. But those thoughts managed to whittle their way in. The beach was soon overrun with jet-black pugs, which promptly either ate or pissed on all the flowers. Mary Beth twitched in her sleep as her hand involuntarily whacked at the air above her body. The only drool came from the saliva that trickled from her mouth and ran down her chin.
      But again the dream ended and her mind went blank. Sadly, she once again heard the now familiar "Eeeeaaat Peeeete" just before she awoke. Mary Beth was mightily angry as she wiped her chin and hopped out of bed. She stormed into the kitchen and glared out the window. As expected, Pete was glaring back at her. He yapped upon seeing her and pulled at his chain. "Fuck you, Pete. Fuck you," Mary Beth shouted and ran from the window.
      Luckily, it was Saturday, so no work. Mary Beth didn't think she had it in her to even contemplate working. Instead, she returned to her bedroom and flung herself on the bed. She was exhausted, but petrified at the thought of falling back to sleep. Still, her lids quickly grew heavy and her body sank into the mattress. The last words she said before drifting off were, "Damn dog."
      This time the dream occurred in her kitchen. A huge black pot filled all four burners on her stove and bubbled over with black ooze. Strangely, the dream-state Mary Beth felt a feeling of inner peace and satisfaction at whatever it was she was creating in her kitchen. The sleeping Mary Beth felt it too and woke a short while later on her own accord. No "Eeeeaaat Peeeete" filled her head this time, just a nice, relaxing, "Aaahhh".
      Mary Beth got up and went back to the kitchen. She was starving and wanted to fix herself a huge meal. But just as she was about to retrieve the necessary ingredients, she spotted the large pot on her stove. A pot she hadn't left there before she went to bed. "Uh oh," she muttered. She had heard of sleepwalking before, but sleepcooking was a new one. She tentatively inched in closer to the pot and touched the lid. It was hot. And the pot was heavy. Something was cooking inside of it. Something, she had a feeling, was a dog called Pete. With her stomach in knots, she edged towards the window and slowly raised her eyes to look outside. But there was no Pete to be seen. No little, black Pug with its forever-drooling mouth and snorting nose. No yapping, devil-spawned dog anywhere at all. Only a calming peace now pervaded the neighborhood.
      Mary Beth looked back towards the pot and grinned and shrugged. "Oh well. What's done is done," she said, as she put her oven mitts on and lifted the pot from the stove. "No use crying over spilt…mutt." She laughed at her little, inside joke. Still, she had no intention of eating the damn thing. She did, however, want it out of her house and her life, forever.
      She crept outside and made her way to the garbage can that sat on the sidewalk. Looking away, she pushed the lid off and prepared to dump the pot's belongings inside. But just before she started to pour, she heard a familiar voice. "Yoo-hoo, Mary Beth." It was her neighbor, Mrs. O'Reilly. Mrs. O'Reilly, the owner of Pete. Mary Beth gulped and turned to face her neighbor, who was walking up to her even as she repeated her yoo-hooing.
      "Morning, Mrs. O'Reilly," Mary Beth said, forcing a smile on her face.
      "Why, it's just past twelve, dear," Mrs. O'Reilly replied, grinning from ear to ear.
      "Oh, yes. I meant good afternoon." Mary Beth's heart wrenched at the thought that she was holding Mrs. O'Reilly's cooked, dead dog in her sweating, oven-mitted hands. She had nothing against Mrs. O'Reilly, after all, just her dog: Satan's minion, the evil dog, Pete.
      "What do you have there?" she asked Mary Beth. "Smells heavenly."
      Mary Beth felt the twinges of guilt coursing though her veins as Mrs. O'Reilly stood there smiling at her. Poor Mrs. O'Reilly, she thought. But now what was she to do? How could she explain the need to toss away a pot of food all the way outside and not in her own kitchen? That was an odd thing to do, Mary Beth imagined. But before she could think of a suitable explanation, Mrs. O'Reilly added, "Did you cook that for me? You certainly didn't have to go through all that trouble, dear. But it sure is sweet of you."
      Mary Beth just stood there in shock and nodded. "Um, yeah, for you," she managed to say in utter horror.
      "Well, you're too kind. And I accept. Bring it on into the house, dear. I was just about to start lunch, so your timing is perfect."
      Mary Beth was thinking just the opposite, but followed Mrs. O'Reilly through her house and into her kitchen. She winced each time she past one of Pete's toys scattered about. "No more play time for Pete," she mumbled to herself.
      "What's that dear?" Mrs. O'Reilly asked, as she took the pot and set it down on the stove.
      "Oh, um, I asked where that playful Pete was."
      "Pete? Don't know, dear. Guess he's sleeping somewhere."
      Closer than you know, Mary Beth thought to herself. But said instead, "Okay then, well, enjoy your lunch." And then turned to go back to her own home.
      "Nonsense, dear. You went through all this trouble. It would be an insult on my part if I didn't insist that you sit down and share this wonderful meal with me." Again, Mrs. O'Reilly lit up with a smile and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. Mary Beth felt the beads of sweat forming on her forehead as she nodded a yes and sat down at the kitchen table.
      "Sure," Mary Beth said. "Of course."
      Mrs. O'Reilly gave a motherly chuckle and set the table. Then she asked, "And what are we having today?"
      "Secret family recipe. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
      Mrs. O'Reilly stared at Mary Beth and then broke out in a howl of laughter. "Oh dear, that would be a shame. Okay then, your secret is safe."
      Mary Beth hoped as much. One murder a day was plenty. Still, she thought, if need be…
      But before she could finish the notion, Mrs. O'Reilly set two bowls of steaming hot soup down on the table. "Looks divine," she said, before sitting down to join Mary Beth, who was thinking that it looked more like hell; which was where she pictured little Pete now romping and snorting to his evil little heart's content.
      Mary Beth watched as Mrs. O'Reilly spooned a hearty mouthful down her gullet. "Mmm, tastes like chicken," she practically purred.
      "It would," Mary Beth whispered.
      "What's that, dear?"
      "I said it should, that's what it is. Chicken." Again, Mary Beth watched as Mrs. O'Reilly pigged out on Pug.
      "Eat up, dear. It's getting cold," Mrs. O'Reilly admonished as she devoured her meal.
      Mary Beth sat there and stared down at the gruel. Chunks of grizzled meat floated to the oily surface, intermingling with the carrots and potatoes. She nearly tossed her cookies as she ladled the soup onto her spoon. In her head, she heard her own voice saying, "Eeeeaaat Peeeete. Eeeeaaat Peeeete. Eeeeaaat Peeeete." To which she then did.
      The feeling of tender meat to teeth instantly filled her with an insatiable appetite, and she eagerly downed spoonful after heaping spoonful. That is until Mrs. O'Reilly broke the silence with, "Pete would love this. Chicken's his favorite."
      Mary Beth nearly choked on her mouthful as she watched Mrs. O'Reilly stand up and shout for her dog. But there was no reply. How could there be, she thought. Mary Beth set the spoon in her bowl and felt the pangs of guilt join the broth in her stomach.
      Mrs. O'Reilly sat back down and turned to Mary Beth. "Pete's been somewhat ill lately. Bladder problems. Guess it comes with age. Poor dear can't seem go to the bathroom. I've been keeping him out on the lawn a lot in the hopes that between his medicine and the grass, he'll go, but it just seems to build up and stay within him."
      Just then, Mary Beth had a terrifying thought that bolted through her brain and out her lips. "Um, Mrs. O'Reilly, have you been standing out there in the morning encouraging him?"
      "Why yes dear, I have. I hope I didn't disturb you with my singing. I thought that by crooning 'Peeeee Peeet' to him it might help. Guess I'm just a foolish old woman who loves her doggie."
      Mary Beth felt the meat inside her stomach start to churn and gurgle. "Pee Pete" sure did sound a lot like "Eat Pete", she thought, trying to assuage her guilt. But her remorse just kept on building and building, burning her stomach like an acid fire, until the dam finally broke and a torrent of tears came pouring out of her eyes.
      "I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Reilly. I'm so, so sorry," she kept blubbering.
      "My goodness, dear. I didn't know you were so fond of my little Pete. But it's just a little bladder problem. Nothing that should eat you up inside." At hearing that, Mary Beth moaned even louder, sending her lament out throughout Mrs. O'Reilly's house and right into a certain dog's ears.
      Pete came bounding in a short while later and looked up at the sobbing Mary Beth in bewilderment. He snorted, drooled, and leapt up onto her lap. Mary Beth looked up and her heart filled with unbridled joy. "Oh, Pete, you're alive. You're alive!" she shouted into the dog's face as she smothered him with kisses. With all the excitement, Pete promptly peed all over Mary Beth's lap.
      Mrs. O'Reilly looked on in stunned amazement at Mary Beth's reaction, but then gave a relieved smile at finally seeing her pet go pee-pee. Upon feeling the warmth of Pete's emission streaming down her leg, Mary Beth looked the dog square in the face and watched as he sat there snorting and drooling in amusement at his achievement. A sinister thought raced to her head and perched in the forefront of her mind.
      "Well, Mrs. O'Reilly, I better go home and change. Glad you enjoyed the lunch. Mind if I take little Pete here for a walk later? Maybe it will help him go some more."
      "That would be lovely, dear," Mrs. O'Reilly said, and smiled her big, motherly smile. "And thank you again for the soup. It was delicious. Here, I'll just give you the pot back and you can get going."
      "Oh no, Mrs. O'Reilly, you keep it for now. I have a much bigger one at home. A muuuuch bigger one."
      Mrs. O'Reilly nodded and looked down at her dog lovingly. Pete, at the time, was once again peeing, this time with good reason.