exanimateMarigold felt bad.
There had been a raccoon in the yard. She liked when raccoons came to the yard, they puffed up big so big, but they ran ran ran when you chased them, and the noises they made were like birds or squirrels but bigger and more exhilarating. She had chased the raccoon, but the raccoon didn't run. Instead, it held its ground, and when she came close enough, it bit her on the shoulder, hard, teeth tearing skin and flesh and leaving only pain pain pain behind. Then she ran, she ran from the raccoon, and she had rolled in the dirt until the bleeding stopped, mud clotting the wound, pain pain pain muted a little behind the haze of her confusion. Then had come shame. Shame, because she would be called bad dog for chasing raccoons; bad dog for getting bitten when there were so many people in the house and yard and everything was strange.
So Marigold did what any good dog in fear of being termed a bad dog would do; she had gone to the hole in the back of the fence, the hole she and her brother worked and worried so long at, and slunk into the yard next door, where the boy lived. The boy laughed and pulled her ears sometimes, but it never hurt. The boy loved her. She knew the boy loved her, even as she knew the man and the woman fed her, and that she was a good dog, really, all the way to the heart of her. She was a good dog.
She was a good dog, but she felt so bad. So very bad. The badness had started with the bite, but it had spread since then, and now she could barely swallow, and the light was hurting her eyes so much, so very much. She lay huddled under the bushes, wishing she could find her feet, wishing she knew why she felt bad. So very bad.
Marigold felt hungry.
The hunger was a new thing, a strong thing, stronger even than the bad feeling that was spreading through her. She considered the hunger, as much as she could. She had never been the smartest of dogs, and her mind was getting fuzzy, thought and impulse giving way to alien instinct. She was a good dog. She just felt bad. She was a good dog. She was...she was...she was hungry. Marigold was hungry.
Something rustled through the bushes. The dog that had been a good dog, that had been Marigold, and that was now just hungry rose slowly, legs unsteady, but willing to support the body if there might be something coming that could end the hunger. The dog that had been a good dog, that had been Marigold, looked without recognition at the figure that parted the greenery and peered, curiously, down at it. The dog, which could not moan, growled low.
"Oggie?"
***
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When will you Rise?
May 31 2011, 12:51:21 UTC 6 years ago
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May 31 2011, 14:15:51 UTC 6 years ago
That's not the only reason the cat is there, though. There's a whole sub-theme about how people love animals even when it doesn't make any damn sense, which ties into a bigger theme about how love makes no sense in a world where your beloveds could die and turn into monsters on you any minute, and yet if you don't love you are already a monster. Lois' presence also serves to make the horse farm more sympathetic and comprehensible, even for people who don't know horse people therefore don't understand on a gut level how crazy they really are.* George would have put her foot down about any pet bigger than 40 pounds, but a cat is workable (even though it's clearly a PITA to haul Lois around with them). Also it's a Bad, Mean Thing in that you think "it's SAFE to have a cat!" only...when people are trying to kill you and they are wantonly cruel, not for the cat.
*I say this from knowledge, as someone who was personally kicked, thrown, stepped on, and bitten, and yet still inexplicably wanted to ride.
May 31 2011, 17:55:51 UTC 6 years ago
YES YES YES YES THIS.
The beloveds turning into monsters at any moment (spontaneous amplification is really rare, but still technically *possible*, even in the post-Rising world-- plus someone could just have a stroke or heart attack or aneurysm in their sleep) is probably the most terrifying aspect of the Newsflesh universe to me. And yet, how else would you survive with any kind of a self intact, without love?