he was hungry, that’s all. hungry in a way he couldn’t explain; hungry in a way you would never understand.
it started with bugs, of course. they were everywhere, and so many of them! crickets, ladybugs, spiders, little brown crunchy hoppy squirmy bugs with no names. some were salty, some sour. some of them bit him while he was biting them, which made him giggle. only fair, he would think.
one or two made him sick, made him throw up. so uncool, bugs. emptying his stomach, making him hungrier. so much hunger.
they had it wrong, the old ones. they said when you ate something, you got its spirit. you became fast like a deer, strong like a bear, sonofabitch like a man you killed in battle. he never got spirit, no soul. instead, he got the hunger of all the things he ate.
bugs don’t eat much. but it accumulates.
eating a bee was a mistake. the sting wasn’t bad, but the desire to eat a million flowers nearly drove him crazy.
eventually bugs weren’t enough. squirrels were too fast, rabbits were too shy, birds too high and flappy. so it was rats. they were smart like a rat, but greed made them stupid like a rat. they could be lured, they could be hit in the head with a rock.
the fur felt good going down.
he didn’t cook them. cooking was for people with more time and less hunger. people with pans and spoons and electricity and all the things he didn’t have anymore.
rats were a mistake.
they were always eating, always hungry. the hunger came out in the juice and soaked into his bones. good at first, sure. the meat filled you up, but then the hunger followed, grabbing his gut like a cramp, like a squeezing hand. eating one rat made him so hungry he had to eat two. which led to four, which led to more, which led to math, and he was never very good at math.
he needed something plumper, something well-fed that didn’t think about eating every damn moment.
so, pets.
neutered tabbies. chubby little corgis. the occasional inattentive rottweiler. so many cute collars with jingly tags and sparkly rhinestones. he wore some on his wrist, some on his ankle. they reminded him of happy times.
but it was never enough, never plump enough, too many bones, so much hunger.
so, roadkill. farm animals. passed-out drunks. you.
he took off the collars. no jingles. he took off the shoes. he is very quiet. he has learned how to sneak up on the food.
he is in your house. he is in the hallway. he is in your bedroom.
slowly, quietly, he lifts the blanket at the foot of your bed and sees your little pink toes. he counts them. one, two, three, four, another, another, whatever.
you don’t look hungry. perhaps you are satisfied, and will satisfy him. will one little toe be enough? probably not. but he has all night.
and he’s so hungry, so very hungry.