Dick and Dirk

Dick Carlton looked over at his best friend and drew a heavy breath. "I'm sorry it had to come to this," he said softly, not sure whether his words were understood. Probably not, he thought, but they had to be said, if only to make himself feel better. He thought for a moment about how things had been only five days earlier, how different the world seemed at that moment, how much better it was compared to now. It was a strange feeling, the difference between then and now.

Dick Carlton's best friend, an odd-looking spaniel-dachshund mix, didn't seem to care much about anything right at the moment. Dirk seemed to be off in his own space, not looking at Dick Carlton, not ackowledging the sentiment that Dick Carlton felt better about expressing. The chain around his neck chafed, so he tried not to move, tried to lie still to minimize the pain. The chain, not made for its purpose, had been around Dirk's neck for four days now, ever since he'd had his last meal. He was starving now because Dick Carlton hadn't fed him since the misunderstanding.

It was also hard for him to move with the pig iron clipped to the end of the chain. It was a short chain, giving him very little freedom from its weight.

Dick Carlton was hungry too. Like Dirk, he also hadn't eaten in four days. So Dirk was looking better and better with each passing day. It was his only option, he figured. His only option if he wanted to stay alive long enough for someone to find him alive. But he knew his odds weren't good. The turkey vultures that hovered overhead in growing numbers seemed to be telling him that even if he had some food now, he might not make it until his next meal, and might indeed become the next meal for the black birds above.

Dick Carlton cursed himself. If anyone was to blame for his predicament, it was his own dumb self. It seemed like a fine idea to hike into the wilds of Utah with his best friend. It seemed like a great idea, possibly even a funny idea, to wiggle his feet around in that random tub of pork grease that happened to be near his campsite four days ago. It was funny until he woke up the next morning and found Dirk eagerly polishing off the last bit of his left foot. Oh yes, the right foot was already gone. Pig grease, in the middle of nowhere. How stupid was it now to sashay about in it? Never did he imagine that Dirk would find his feet more tasty than the contents of the vat itself. Oh, but did he feel stupid now.

Still, he felt really bad when he raised his .38 caliber revolver and plugged Dirk in the brain with its last bullet. He cried a little. Then he cried even more when he realized he didn't have any feet to go over and claim his dead-dog meal. Or to get to his backpack where he had his Buck knife. Now he was really feeling alone. And hungry. And hopeless. But the vultures were not about to leave him feeling lonely. Not today.