Spy

Spy

As usual, dog is at my feet. As if I had a canine permanently attached to my two feet, this dog never seems to be more that two feet away from me at any one time.

Waking up, dog is there. Eating breakfast, dog is there. It seems to know I will then take a walk. So it brings me the leash.

I think dog is an undercover secret agent. How do I know?

He tracks all my movements and follows me everywhere. He watches me as I eat, as if waiting for the poison to take effect. He hides behind the curtain when I’m in the living room, especially when guests come over. Is he recording our conversations?

I knew for sure he was a spy when I spotted him digging holes in the backyard. I think there is evidence out there that he’s hiding. Perhaps messages to his contacts.

“I want to report a spy in my house.” I told this to the dispatcher answering my 911 call.

“You do realize this service is for real emergencies, don’t you? I don’t have any protocol for reporting a spy.”

“I have good information that this spy is working undercover and against the government.”

“Perhaps you should call the FBI?” The dispatcher dispatched me to dead air.

Dog gave me a look. Did it know I was trying to report it as a spy?

This sinister, growling canine entity stood before me now. A wolf-like appearance grew larger before my eyes. It dared me to act upon my instincts.

So I did. I put dog in its cage, then found a bottle of Scotch. 'This isn’t safe', I thought. Dog lapped it up readily. Dog died, I relaxed. For a few hours.

W/C 293