lion. Mostly a plant-eating giraffe, someone to be tolerated when necessary.
But he was never invited to the table. Unless there was a very good reason.
It was time to have a talk with Luke. See what was going on. Maybe even ask for his help with the science fair project, whatever that might be. I had to try to get the herd back together.
I waited twenty minutes, no answer to my text. I tried again.
Jed: U there?
I waited another ten minutes. Still nothing. Maybe he was in the shower, or just didn’t have his phone. Nah, I couldn’t remember Luke not having his phone. Even in the shower. My thumbs hovered over the screen, wondering what to—
“Hey, sport.”
I bolted upright on my bed. My heart thumped once, which was the zombie equivalent of being scared to un-death.
“Jeez, Dad, maybe a knock or something?” I said to the head poking through the doorway. “There is such a thing called privacy.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But not to kids in this house. Besides, why do you want privacy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s a basic right?”
“Not for thirteen-year-olds. Different rules apply. Talk to me again when you’re eighteen.”
“Then I should get at least 13/18ths privacy, and that means at least knocking.”
“Fine. I’m not in the mood to do math and figure out what the heck you’re talking about. I came up here to tell you about Tread. He’s digging up the yard.”
That only meant one thing.
“Does he have his tail?” I said, rising from my bed.
“What do you think?”
Tread didn’t have many annoying canine-based habits. He left bits of flesh in the carpet when he scratched. His bark was more of a low, deathly moan as if drawing his last breath (though he drew no breath at all). He curled his lips when he was happy, so he looked like he was going to rip your throat out even as you scratched behind his ears (he loved that).
But Tread’s most annoying habit was the way he misplaced his tail, and by that I mean burying it. Most times, he buried it in the same place. But not always. And every now and then he didn’t bury it at all. We found it under the kitchen table, behind the couch, and once in the laundry bin (note to future zombie-dog owners—tails are soft and fluffy after tumble-drying, but you will need to throw out any clothes in the same load).
I followed Dad to the backyard. It looked like Tread was on his, let’s see, fourth hole. This one by the elm in the corner.
“Fourteen more and we’ve got ourselves a golf course,” I said. “I vote to see where this goes.”
“And when the police call after hearing reports of a mass grave in our backyard, you’ll take care of that, right?” Dad said, reaching for the shovel we kept near the back door. “You know what you need to do.”
I took the shovel and called to Tread.
“Tread, knock it off!” I screamed. His front paws continued to toss dirt onto the pile growing higher behind his tail-free behind. “Tread! TREAD, NO !”
Tread bounded toward me. It never ceased to amaze me how agile he was for a terrier-undead mix. I wondered if the American Kennel Club might want to add that to their breed registry. It’s no more ridiculous than a schnauzer-poodle (I’d rather have a zombie-terrier than a schnoodle).
“Good boy, Tread.” I dropped the shovel and rubbed his ears, so I could watch his mouth curl in deathly pleasure.
Something was in his mouth. A glint of metal. His jaws clenched and there was a “ snap .” He bit down again. Another snap .
Whatever it was, he was about to swallow it.
“Tread, drop it now,” I said, putting my open palm in front of his nose.
He took another bite.
“Now.”
Crunch .
“I mean it.”
Crunch.
“Tread!” I shoved my index and middle fingers into his mouth, being as careful as I could not to poke out his teeth. There was something at the back, approaching his throat. Thin, and mostly plastic.
I maneuvered carefully, clamping it between my fingers.
But he was never invited to the table. Unless there was a very good reason.
It was time to have a talk with Luke. See what was going on. Maybe even ask for his help with the science fair project, whatever that might be. I had to try to get the herd back together.
I waited twenty minutes, no answer to my text. I tried again.
Jed: U there?
I waited another ten minutes. Still nothing. Maybe he was in the shower, or just didn’t have his phone. Nah, I couldn’t remember Luke not having his phone. Even in the shower. My thumbs hovered over the screen, wondering what to—
“Hey, sport.”
I bolted upright on my bed. My heart thumped once, which was the zombie equivalent of being scared to un-death.
“Jeez, Dad, maybe a knock or something?” I said to the head poking through the doorway. “There is such a thing called privacy.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But not to kids in this house. Besides, why do you want privacy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s a basic right?”
“Not for thirteen-year-olds. Different rules apply. Talk to me again when you’re eighteen.”
“Then I should get at least 13/18ths privacy, and that means at least knocking.”
“Fine. I’m not in the mood to do math and figure out what the heck you’re talking about. I came up here to tell you about Tread. He’s digging up the yard.”
That only meant one thing.
“Does he have his tail?” I said, rising from my bed.
“What do you think?”
Tread didn’t have many annoying canine-based habits. He left bits of flesh in the carpet when he scratched. His bark was more of a low, deathly moan as if drawing his last breath (though he drew no breath at all). He curled his lips when he was happy, so he looked like he was going to rip your throat out even as you scratched behind his ears (he loved that).
But Tread’s most annoying habit was the way he misplaced his tail, and by that I mean burying it. Most times, he buried it in the same place. But not always. And every now and then he didn’t bury it at all. We found it under the kitchen table, behind the couch, and once in the laundry bin (note to future zombie-dog owners—tails are soft and fluffy after tumble-drying, but you will need to throw out any clothes in the same load).
I followed Dad to the backyard. It looked like Tread was on his, let’s see, fourth hole. This one by the elm in the corner.
“Fourteen more and we’ve got ourselves a golf course,” I said. “I vote to see where this goes.”
“And when the police call after hearing reports of a mass grave in our backyard, you’ll take care of that, right?” Dad said, reaching for the shovel we kept near the back door. “You know what you need to do.”
I took the shovel and called to Tread.
“Tread, knock it off!” I screamed. His front paws continued to toss dirt onto the pile growing higher behind his tail-free behind. “Tread! TREAD, NO !”
Tread bounded toward me. It never ceased to amaze me how agile he was for a terrier-undead mix. I wondered if the American Kennel Club might want to add that to their breed registry. It’s no more ridiculous than a schnauzer-poodle (I’d rather have a zombie-terrier than a schnoodle).
“Good boy, Tread.” I dropped the shovel and rubbed his ears, so I could watch his mouth curl in deathly pleasure.
Something was in his mouth. A glint of metal. His jaws clenched and there was a “ snap .” He bit down again. Another snap .
Whatever it was, he was about to swallow it.
“Tread, drop it now,” I said, putting my open palm in front of his nose.
He took another bite.
“Now.”
Crunch .
“I mean it.”
Crunch.
“Tread!” I shoved my index and middle fingers into his mouth, being as careful as I could not to poke out his teeth. There was something at the back, approaching his throat. Thin, and mostly plastic.
I maneuvered carefully, clamping it between my fingers.
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