I adopted Daisy a little over four years ago while I was in the worst depression of my life. Immediately after bringing her home it felt like that warm little ball of fuzz and puppy teeth was working to fill that gaping hole left in my life after the death of my brother.
I can say with confidence that she’s saved my life twice now.
She’s a healthy 134 pound Saint Bernard with no concept of personal space and I love her to death. She knows a handful of tricks, but she’s stubborn and rarely cooperates. In many ways she’s a completely mundane dog, content to act as my personal weighted blanket at any and all opportunities. The only thing out of the ordinary about Daisy is that I have never in my life seen her eat anything.
That is, until recently.
Especially as a puppy, this behavior was extremely concerning to me. I tried hand feeding her, mixing her food with warm water, hell I even tried bottle feeding her. She wouldn’t eat any of it. Four days after I first adopted her I was about to call the vet to schedule an appointment when I noticed something.
The bowl I left out for her was empty.
The small aluminum dish that was packed with a pale brown mountain of dried dog food the night before had entirely vanished, save for a few loose crumbs left at the bottom. Relieved, I refilled the bowl, thinking that maybe Daisy was just shy, or adjusting to her new home or something like that. Still, I consulted with the vet about this behavior at her next check-up.
“Well she’s definitely a healthy weight for her age,” The Vet said nonchalantly as she hoisted Daisy off the scale. “It’s not unheard of for dogs to do this sort of thing, especially as puppies,” she continued.
“Just be sure to keep an eye out for any weight loss, lethargy, or vomiting,” she warned. “If you do, give me a call immediately,” she said, crouching down to pet Daisy on the head, which she returned with an inelegant kiss on the cheek.
So thinking nothing of it, we left. Months turned to years and Daisy remained the picture of canine health, save for a brief case of kennel cough a few weeks after her second birthday. Each night, I would fill her bowl, and each morning it would be picked clean, yet I would never actually see her eating.
I found myself on occasion checking the bowl late into the night. Over the years I’ve narrowed it down to around 1:45 AM being the time the bowl goes from full to empty. Even still, she’s never eaten anything around me. Not treats, not kibble, even when I offer her some steak or chicken she turns her head to the side or smacks it out of my hand before walking away as if I’ve offended her.
That all changed last week.
It started off as standard as any other Saturday night. I was on the couch binge watching whatever a series I can’t recall, Daisy, sleeping soundly on top of me.
With a start, she leaped off my chest and onto the floor, darting out of the room. Immediately I got up, Daisy never acts like this.
Fumbling through the dark of the house, feeling out for a light switch, I heard it. A low growl, coming from the far side of the room. That was when I heard a sharp yelp, and the weighty thump of fur hitting the hardwood floor.
I didn’t even think.
I charged into the darkness after Daisy, just as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the kitchen I was able to make out the silhouette of a man. He was tall, his obscured head nearly brushed the ceiling. The rest of his figure was indescribable in the dark, standing as an obelisk of pure obsidian, cutting through the dull gray. He was standing in front of an open window that I was sure I had locked. He reeled back to kick Daisy once more when I threw myself at him, tackling him blindly to the floor.
I felt nothing but pure animosity for this man as I began to wail mercilessly on him, pummeling his face, chest, anything within reach. I grabbed his head as I pinned him to the floor and began slamming it into the hardwood. I pulled back my arm, fully intending to shatter this stranger’s nose into his brain for even touching Daisy, when I felt a hot sting in my side. I looked down.
He stabbed me.
A small knife was jammed into my abdomen, the blade shining in the dim light, blood trickling down the cool silver and pooling at my feet. The intruder pushed me to the side, the blade digging even deeper into my torso, with pain spreading throughout like a white hot nail being driven along my veins.
He stood up, dusting himself off before delivering a strong kick to the back of my head for good measure, the blow sending me reeling as I struggled for breath.
That’s when I heard something snap.
It sounded exactly like when you break a twig in half, the fibrous material straining against itself as it tears asunder. Alarmingly, the sound was coming from Daisy’s direction, who had yet to move from the corner she had been kicked into. As she stood upright I heard it again, as well as a meaty thump that sounded almost like wet laundry falling on concrete.
What rose from Daisy’s spot on the floor could scarcely be called a dog.
I don’t know if it was the kick to the head, the blood loss, or a combination of the two, but what I saw that day was not of this world. Massive, even larger than Daisy, and with mandibles dripping with shred flesh that bisected her face. Her coat slumped off, revealing reptilian scales that glistened with moisture.
Before I could even blink, a mass of writhing tentacles burst forward from between the mandibles, grabbing the intruder by the ankles and torso, causing him to slam into the ground before being pulled toward Daisy’s maw.
I’m sure you can imagine what happened next.
Between the gurgling screams and the blood and viscera being thrown across the room, I’m glad I lost consciousness around this point.
When I woke up several hours later, I was in the hospital with Daisy sleeping comfortably at my side, barely fitting into the cramped bed.
Apparently, a neighbor heard the commotion and called the police to investigate. When they got inside they found me lying in a pool of my own blood, Daisy by my side, thankfully unharmed. They found no trace of a break-in, so they bought my made up story about tripping and falling onto a knife with concerning ease.
I’m writing this weeks later, my side still hurts and Daisy is just as lovely as ever. She’s laying on my legs as I write this now in fact. I still think back to that night, but strangely I’m not as wary of her as one might think. She’s still my dog and I love her, even if she does turn out to be some crazy tentacle monster.
Well either way, I think I know what she eats now. Only one question still haunts my mind.
Who or what has she been eating up until then?