The Dogs Need Meat[]
It has been years since the butcher appeared in his shop. It’s been years since any of us went out, I suppose. I’ve run out of meat again and shall have to release the hounds, so they can fend for their own. Poor things.
They eat their fill and always return, but I wonder where they find the meat. And they always return such a mess, with bloody muzzles and scratches on their bodies, needing lots of grooming to return them to their sleek and fluffy state. No matter, I suppose. If the butcher be not home, the beast can sate itself.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the bones the hounds brought back as gifts to me. They’re so big, and they make an excellent broth!
