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I suppose I'd consider myself fortunate that my charge was never the most discreet dog around. Those surpassing the ten foot, half-ton marker rarely are. I can only imagine what manner of havoc he might have wrought were he of a more manageable stature.

As it stood, I had a trail to follow. Might as well have been lit by search beacons. He was in dire need of a good bathing. My lupine nose, and ears, old though they may be, were more than sufficient. Even these became unneccessary before long, though. As I traversed the slowly brightening alleys, chilled by the damp, bitter breeze and wishing earnestly for dawn's light, the trail I'd been following largely by scent alone became marked with blood.

I sighed inwardly, and quickened my pace. This wasn't anything new to me. Since I'd come into contact with this brute of a dog, nearly two months prior, the early morning bloodstains had been a regular occurrence. The usual fare, I found myself wishing, hoping that he'd not left too much evidence for which to be incriminated; this callousness for the assumedly murdered was becoming routine, and I rarely felt bad about it anymore. There was nothing else I could do. I didn't know him to leave survivors.

A few twists and turns, and I could smell him getting closer. Another bend, and I could hear the feast. Squelching, crunching, horrible sounds, reminiscent of hyenas gorging themselves fat on a rotten gazelle. I could imagine the blood dripping from his jaws, and that horrible, teeth-jutting smile he'd wear as he devoured his latest kill. I didn't fool myself into thinking he wasn't a monster. Nighttime often found me dreaming of the dog slithering out from under my bed, pulling himself up onto my mattress, and laughing in his thick, guttural way as he finally put an end to me. He'd gobble me up, surely as any fairy-tale beasty threatened a starry-eyed hero. Feet-first, down the hatch. Waking in a cold sweat was becoming increasingly common, as well.

The actual sight of him tore me from my macabre revery. He was hunched over beside a dumpster, his back to me, and his powerful shoulders flared out; his head was hunched down between them, and I could see him jerking and pulling relentlessly at the tendons, and muscles of what I could only assume to be a high school aged tiger. His blood-soaked letterman jacket (varsity baseball, it proudly proclaimed) clung tightly to what was left of his mangled torso.

I breathed out a heavy sigh, hoping that was enough to garner my boy's attention. It wasn't, so I cleared my throat, and spoke what he'd told me was his name.

"Chiot..." I spoke the unassuming French, doing my best to sound reproachful and disappointed in his behavior. It got him to pause, at least, and his shoulders tightened with a swallow before he dropped the bloody mess of a cadaver and slowly looked my way.

His muzzle, and his bare upper body were both in terrible condition. Blood, flecks of shattered bone, and various pieces of entrails I haven't the stomach to describe littered his thick fur. His teeth, which were somehow too big for his mouth and partially uncovered by his lips, were stained red. They clicked loudly together a few times before he got up the nerve to say what was on his mind.

"Iz sorrrrry..." he apologized, which was also nothing new. He was always sorry. I believed him, like I always did. He couldn't help himself. He looked somewhat guilty, and wasn't paying any more attention to his kill.

"I know, buddy," I crooned, doing my best to smile, and speak in hushed, comforting tones as I moved closer to the hulking brute of a malamute. I'd made him cry before. It was heartbreaking, and I didn't want to go through that ordeal again. "I know you didn't mean any harm. These things just...happen." The words sounded heavy to my own ears, and I wondered how much of my cold-hearted sentiment actually got through to him. He never had very much to say, though this might've had something to do with his only recently learning how to talk, and it was always a matter of guessing as to how much he could understand of what _I_ said.

He grinned his horrible grin, and his tail wagged awkwardly, appeasingly behind his back as I approached. Once again, despite the ripped apart teenager laying at his feet, I found myself growing captivated by the dog's feral charm, and bitterly angry at whoever would corrupt such a gentle, child-like soul. My nightmares suddenly seemed unfounded.

"You know that I don't want you doing this, though. You're supposed to stay inside with me; and I'll get you your meal when I wake up in the morning. There's no reason for you to be out here." It was all I could say to scold him. I was afraid of him, and there was no doubt about that, but...more than that, I didn't want to hurt him. He was so vulnerable in his weird way, how he'd stand there with his fingers nervously near his torn belt-loops, and his tail waving so sweetly behind his back.

The minor admonishment did its job once more, and his expression turned snowdoggishly down when it sunk in that he'd done wrong.

"'s baaaad dog..." he growled thickly, monotone, feeling sorry for himself, and temporarily ashamed of the heinous act he'd committed.

"No. Chiot's a good dog -- but even good dogs do bad things, sometimes." I spoke to him as I'd spoken to the children I'd treated before my retirement. Small, leading statements, condescending, but never designed to make a simple mind feel bad about itself. I bent down nearby, resting my smaller hand on his thigh, and gingerly picking out the corpse's heart. "Finish your meal, tiger, and we'll go home. You need a bath." I straightened up, pulled the dog down by his new collar, and held the heart up to his lips to feed him his favorite treat.

He had no qualms against trusting me, despite the terrible life he must have had. To see him so pure, so willing to believe, and open himself up for being hurt again; it made me ache on a deeper level than anything I'd ever felt. His jaws opened up with a sickening 'THUCK' as his teeth pulled away from one another, the thick gummy mixture of entrails and blood having weakly fused the upper to the lower. I shivered as he gingerly took the heart from my hand. He noticed, I'm sure of that, but said nothing. I showed him a watery smile again to ensure everything had been smoothed over, though it was a conscious effort to keep my guts in my belly while he chewed up the organ. So slowly, so methodical, as if on some level he ENJOYED making me squirm. I could HEAR the chambers of the little heart pop as he chewed them up.

Finally, with a thick gulp, he was through. I breathed another audible sigh of relief, and gave my big dog a rub under the collar. It made him squirm, but I was expecting that. When I'd found him, there had been a hairless, chafed, and scarring line of skin around his neck. It'd obviously been from a collar, and though the physical abrasions had healed, the mental equivalent was something he was still quite sensitive about. He always endured, but he didn't like me touching his neck.

"You understand I'm going to have to punish you," I told him with all the steelyness I could muster, and let a pause draw out for a moment before continuing. "You can't keep doing this, Chiot, or they'll come and take you away from me. I don't want that. Do YOU want that?"

The conversation was visibly deflating him, and it broke my heart to watch it happen. His weirdly expressive ears laid flat on his head, his eyes turned down to examine the base of the dumpster to his right, and his tail pulled in against his bottom. It took every ounce of bravery I had in me to follow through, but I reached out and took him by the chin.

"Chiot. Do YOU want that?" I repeated.

"Huh-uuuh..." he answered, shaking his head slowly, childishly in the negative. That prompted another smile on my part, a bit more genuine this time. The old-fashioned disciplinarian in me rejoiced, somehow fooling the rest of me into thinking a strong hand, and guidance were all this monster needed.

"Eat, Chiot." Though this order came with a healthy dose of reluctance. I knew what was coming, and though I had seen it a few times before, I feared it was something I would NEVER grow accustomed to. Oblivious to my discomfort, the giant malamute nodded obediently.

The body lurched in a particularly gruesome way when he pulled it closer, the head lolling violently forward, and the shoulders slumping in. Grime and gore dribbled sluggishly from the ruined torso, spattering my puppy's feet and further solidfying the idea that he'd need a bath when we got back home. It was so hard to watch the next part, but like usual, I couldn't tear my eyes away. On some level of consciousness, he knew he held sway over me; I didn't want him to know how deep it went. I wanted him to think _I_ thought him perfectly natural.

From where he stood, bent over at the top like a CGI werewolf, he opened his mouth as wide as it would go. Impossibly wide, in fact, wide enough that I heard the sickening crack of the jaw dislocating, then pulling grotesquely over its hinge. With the cavernous expanse of his maw, and his grisly, overgrown teeth on full display, he started to lower towards his newest kill. I watched as hot, carrion breath buffeted the boy's whiskers and hair, and suddenly the entirety of his bloodsoaked head slipped inside my puppy's muzzle. It bulged obscenely against his cheeks and chin, forcing him ever wider to accomodate the bulk.

I grimaced, despite myself. My affection for the dog notwithstanding, he terrified me; but I watched. The freakish dog was being slower than usual about feeding. Some nagging part of me insisted that he was doing it on purpose. That he knew how much it scared me, and he reveled in watching me pale, and tremble. It was this mean streak I almost perceived that scared me the most.

"Hurry, Chiot. We don't have time for this."

He obeyed. Not for the last time, I wondered why. With the whole of the cat's head stuffed in his maw, he gripped the corpse's shoulders, squeezed in, and hefted him straight up in the air. I winced away from the requisite splatter of gore and bone. Legs hung limply against my puppy's chest, and I watched with my gorge rising as he began to swallow his prey whole. Just like a snake, I thought, again not for the last time. A cold-blooded snake. My beautful sweetheart of a puppy.

The physics of it completely baffled me. Even as big as he was, there was no logical reason for him to be able to do this; but I realized very quickly that logic has no place when dealing with the stuff of nightmares. Turning his head straight up, and firmly squeezing the boy's bottom to aid the process, began the descent. The head passed into his throat. I saw the obscene bulge in his neck. Somehow the shoulders were to follow, and follow they did, broken and crunched inward, sliding slowly into his mouth, and down the gullet. Bottoms up.

Inch by inch, the boy was taken, until his bottom was just outside the dog's mouth. I saw his teeth sink down, making impressions in the seat of his denim jeans before opening wide again, and throwing his head back further for the final push. The paw on the cat's rump stuffed him down inside, legs following, and sneakered feet the last that'd ever be seen of the wayward teenager. A loud, throaty swallow.

Jaws snapped back into place, and his tongue daintily licked over his chops, signifying the end of feeding time. I motioned him closer, taking note of the lumpy swell in his belly, stretched out, and drooping over the waist of his cargo shorts.

I tried to say something after the body had settled in his tum, but my voice cracked, and I did my very best to play it off as a coughing fit. Chiot looked puzzled, and concerned.

"'s goooood?" he asked thoughtfully, halting his slow, lurching approach. Just like that, I felt a rush of warmth for the big, dumb puppy. While I dug around inside my coat for a handkerchief, I smiled at him, and cleared my throat.

"Everything's fine, tiger," I assured him, and again gestured him over. "Master's just old, and tired. He can't keep doing this with you. You remember what we talked about." It was a statement rather than a question, and I'll admit it was something I used to guilt him with.

It was effective. I remember what a change it brought about in him. His shoulders slumped, his chin lowered, and his previously perky ears folded down flat on his head. He didn't say anything else, but he moved right up near me, and knelt down closer to my face; just as I'd taught him to do. It made me very proud.

"We'll go home, though. Home is good; I know you like it there." I took his chin in my hand as I spoke, and gently started to clean his muzzle with the handkerchief. The majority of the mess, still fresh, wiped away easily enough, though I had to turn my eyes away for the more solid chunks. It was a process, and it left my hankie nearly ruined, but I knew how he enjoyed the contact, and attention; and I guess I was already tryin to make up for having to punish him when we got home.

He looked much better by the time I was done with him. Like any proper malamute, Chiot always looked vaguely dignified when he could keep his mouth shut, and tongue hidden -- and downright adorable when he couldn't. Though in retrospect, I suppose I've always been a little biased. He was my baby.

"We ready to go, Chiot?" I asked him, holding his head, cradling it in against my chest. He nodded, exerting enough force that my entire body was jostled with the effort.

"Yah!" he barked a more verbal agreement, louder than I would have liked.

"Eeeeeasy, tiger..." I soothed his growing excitement, shaking his head lovingly in my arms. "Don't be so loud, you'll wake people up." Slowly, and very carefully, I eased him off of me, and straightened him back up on his feet. He grunted, smiled, his usual unassuming behavior.

"Do you remember the way?" He nodded vigorously. I ushered him along a few steps. "When you get away from these buildings, and near that long patch of dirt, I want you to stop and wait for me. Hide, Chiot; don't let anyone see you. You can come out when you see me again."

I turned him slowly around, and gave a slap on the rump to get him moving. He obliged with a tentative, reluctant grunt, and started on his way. I watched him go, stoic and unyielding each time he turned around to see what I was doing. He'd come right back if I gave him any indication I wanted him there, but it was always so hard to be firm with him. I know he just wanted to be next to me.

When he got the point that I wasn't going to give in, he lowered down on all-fours, and started to trot. After a few seconds of acceleration, he was bounding. I smiled. Even on the off-chance anyone saw him going, they wouldn't give him any trouble.

I watched him until he was out of sight. It didn't take long. With my dog safely taken care of for the time being, I turned back to the pool of gore at the foot of the dumpster. Breathing out a huge sigh, I pulled a pair of latex gloves from the depths of my pocket, and popped them tightly around my wrists. Not the MOST sterile instrument I could be afforded, but we make due. I dreaded the upcoming cleanup job, but...such are the responsibilities of a dog owner. And that's exactly what I was, those days.