Willard was, as usual, immersed in the television-some football game or another, essentially identical to any other he had stared at over the past month except for the colors of each team’s uniforms, and even those were almost indistinguishable beneath their crusts of mud and swampy-green grass stains. There was a score, the teams were something to something, of course, but he couldn’t have told anyone what it was. The game was busyness, something to do, something to keep from thinking.
Catherine was sitting at the other end of the family room couch, pretending to watch the game as well, but in reality paying more attention to her hands as they slid aimlessly up and down the nap of the bit of blanket on her lap.
Neither looked toward the kitchen door as Will, Jr., entered, carrying something.
He didn’t speak. He simply stood there, motionless, deathly pale and breathing so shallowly the rise and fall of his chest barely fluttered his shirt.
Finally, Willard glanced up.
Then stood up, urgently, in one swift motion. Catherine caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, then rose to her feet as well.
In a breath, both were at Will’s side.
“What’s wrong?” They spoke at the same instant.
Will didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his eyes-hollow, bruised, red-rimmed-to meet theirs. Then he dropped them to the object he held in his hands.
When they saw what it was, their faces abruptly drained of color until they were as pale, as ashen-white as their son.
It was just a dog-food bowl, Crud’s dented aluminum bowl that usually held crusted remnants of the morning’s helping of kibble.
Today, it held that…and something more.
The edges were caked with flecks of rust-brown, some distinct, round spots, others ragged smears that stained the metal as well as the remains of Crud’s food.
Blood.
Dried blood.
“Will…?” Catherine could get no further with her question. It was as if she already knew the answer.
Willard dropped to one knee and placed his hand over Will’s. “Where’s Crud?”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Tears filled his eyes. “I’ve looked for him all over the house and the back yard. Then, when I went to re-fill his dish…”
No one had to say what they were all thinking.
Yip and Yap.
Dead.
Willard stood and circled his son with his arms. Catherine took the dish gingerly from Will and started into the kitchen to clean it.
“Let’s go out and look for him again,” Willard said. “Maybe he’s just…”
But he never finished his sentence.