Dog Eat Dog by Chris Lynch Page A

okay?”
    “Ya,” I said, though I had no idea. He was Sully, so he could see that.
    “You want me to come with you?” he said, throwing his blankets off.
    “Not necessary, Sul. But thanks.”
    “Thank god,” he said, and pulled the covers up around him again.
    I left him lying there, looking so comfortable. I stopped at the door and stared at him. “You have a good home, Sul.”
    “I know I do.”
    “I’m jealous of you.”
    “Line up with the rest of ’em, pal,” he said through the muffling of covers.
    Duran looked a little startled to see me so early. Then he started sniffing around and bumping me, looking for food. I hadn’t even thought about that, but it could be risky trying to rely on just our friendship alone. But it was best to keep him empty and mean, and let him empty the old man’s refrigerator when it was over.
    It was kind of sweet, walking along with him in the just breaking daylight. There was a roll to his step that felt lively and strong. It was all new to both of us, walking this way to the bus stop, and with nobody else around yet, I wasn’t even nervous.
    The only rider on the bus was asleep, and the driver didn’t even notice Duran, or else he just didn’t let on. The dog fitted himself into one double seat and I took the one behind him. As he slobbered out the window just like any regular dog would, I scratched his ear and talked to him.
    “You know, this really means a lot to me, what you’re going to do here.” He pulled his head in, looked at me, licked me with his sweaty brown tongue. “It won’t take you long, and I don’t think it’ll be too hard for ya... and I won’t ask ya to do it again, ever, I swear.” He did it again, the licking thing.
    We reached our stop and Duran was reluctant to get off. He loved the bus. “There’ll be another ride later, c’mon,” I said. And he came.
    There was no Terry outside the O’Asis, and no Bobo. When I put my key in the deadbolt, I found it already open.
    “How’d you get in here?” I said angrily as I pushed through the door. He sat with his feet up on a table.
    “Jesus, don’t ask me stupid questions,” he sneered.
    Then, as Duran ambled in behind me, the cockiness dropped from Terry’s face. “Holy shit ,” he said, nearly tipping his chair over backward, catching himself on the table.
    That felt good, and I held on to it for a bit, folding my arms and leaning on Duran. “So where’s Bobo?” I asked.
    “He’s out back already,” Terry said, regaining his confidence quickly. “Bobo can’t wait. I don’t care how big your stupid spaniel dog is, Bobo’s gonna eat his ass out. ’Cause Bobo’s a superior animal.”
    Already, it wasn’t fun anymore.
    “Let’s get on with it,” I said.
    “Fuckin’ let’s,” Terry said.
    Duran and I followed Terry to the back door. With a dramatic flourish, he flung it open. There in the middle of the lot, Bobo lay with his chin in the dirt. He raised his head ponderously, looked at us, but showed nothing like emotion.
    I felt the rumbling of Duran’s growl. I turned to see him rigid, the wiry, three-inch hairs standing straight up from the back slope of his skull almost all the way to his stumpy tail. All the teeth showed on one side of his mouth and he was locked into a pose like a giant pointer. He was leaning into me hard.
    I looked back at Bobo, who slowly got to his feet. He looked at us, at Duran, and seemed to brace for something, but he didn’t snarl, didn’t get worked up. One ear looked about ready to fall off.
    There it was. Everything. In one thirty-second mangling of that pathetic chump of a burned-out alcoholic dog, I was going to finally have it all. Terry was going to be gone. Gone for good. And I was going to get to watch him lick dirt all the way out. Finally, I was king. King of the game. King of Terry’s game.
    Finally I saw it.
    King of the losers.
    “Close the door!” I shouted.
    “What?”
    “Shut the door,” I repeated. He did it. I