Eating Mammals

The middle-aged men themselves suddenly burst into activity. Whilst two of them made exaggerated gestures that I was to stay where I was (as if I was about to move), the others rushed off.

‘Oh, a couple of cabbages! Let it be vegetable!’ I wailed inwardly, rejoicing in the easy way that I had ensnared the lot of them, and already thinking of leaving the miserable place. Or turnips! I would have settled for half a dozen turnips, in whatever condition. The pulp of a rotting turnip is far less trouble that one might imagine.

There were by now something approaching a hundred people gathered there watching me, and each one appeared to have an opinion as to what the men would bring for me to eat. I kept up the strut as best I could, but this was not a comfortable moment, for as the anticipation grew so too did the difficulty with which I might be able to refuse any item proffered.

Then a few of the men returned, empty-handed, and a murmur went around the crowd as they began to circulate, whispering in ears and grinning stupidly. From where I was stood I could just make out the furtive gestures of money changing hands, and I realised that the men were collecting a coin or two from everyone present. This went on for several minutes until, when the collection was complete, a hush fell over us.

The other men now returned. They pushed their way through the crowd and strode up to me, a dark tarpaulin suspended between them. They dropped it and stood back. One of the money collectors stepped forward and on the tarpaulin he placed a cap heavy with coins. I got to my knees and weighed the cap. It was very heavy. Keen to maintain the tenor of the performance, I admired the money extravagantly. Then I pulled back the top of the tarpaulin.

A dog. A dead, half-rotten mongrel. Something between a Yorkshire terrier and a Labrador pup. Eyes dull and sunken, its flanks matted with the dried blood and pus of recent decay. Just for a second I tried to believe that it was a fake, part of an elaborate joke. But I touched the carcass, and it was real enough. It had begun to stiffen, and odd patches of fur had fallen away, revealing grey-fawn skin already dry and tight around hardening flesh.

The men drew closer. Their faces twitched with pride as they smiled their satisfied smiles at me. I stood, sickened more at their grotesque faces than at the sight of the dog, and spoke out over their heads.

‘You people are too foul and loathsome to throw me your cruel orders!’

An attempt at something Mulliganesque. But I was wrong. I had heaped too much derision on these poor, dispossessed people. And derision cannot be withdrawn, especially not when one has no words with which to do it. I was condemned, in the plainest sense, to the consequences of my own actions. So I ate the dog.