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Jerry laid the photo of his BiOmega hits on the table. With his gloved hand he held up the canvas bag. |
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Rufus made a silent, shuddering motion with his mouth. Any other dog would have barked his brains out, but Rufus never barked. Jerry had trained it out of him with an electric prod. Barking, like the show of emotions, gave yourself away. Which was fatal in the face of an adversary. Mystery was all. |
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Rufus sat back, his body poised on his haunches as if posing for a photograph. |
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Jerry grinned. "Good boy." Control. Perfect control. And those eyes. They followed him to the cage door. "Protein," said Jerry. And from the bag he pulled out a live chicken by the feet. Instantly it started squawking and beating its wings. Rufus pressed his face against the bars, the white slash of those teeth. "Not yet,'' Jerry said. A little foreplay to sharpen the appetite. |
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Rufus's room was actually half of Jerry's garage divided by a steel grating from floor to ceiling. At one end was a gate that swung inward. Ordinarily Rufus had the run of the house except during such playtime. Jerry used the garage because he could hose the place out when Rufus was done. Not that Rufus left much. |
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He held the bird out so its wings beat freely while its head hung inches from the dog's face through the bars. Not a sound came from Rufus, not a muscle moved except the twitching of his upper lip over those teeth. From the bird a raucous squawking. Swan song for chickens. |
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His usual tosses were chickens and stray cats, a small turkey on Thanksgiving. Once when he toyed with the idea of pitting Rufus, he |
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