I have a dog, Franco. He’s a mutt, but definitely has some Rottweiler in him. He’s meaty, and his coat is black and tan . The rest of him is shepherd, or pit, I’m not sure, but at 90 pounds, you can bet none of his ancestors are Pomeranian. About Franco, he’s missin(more)g his top right canine, born “minus one” the old guy told me as he lifted the puppy out of the crate, musing “This one’s smile’s a little cockeyed.” That’s why I picked him, of course.
As if to make up for it, his other three fangs are huge, half again as long as they should be. Good thing we’re buds. Or have been for the three years I’ve had him. Until this morning.
Around 8 AM, I had an... odd... encounter with him in the kitchen. He was at his bowl eating in his normal way. I stepped past him to grab my coffee off the counter. He stopped and looked up at me, straight in eye, and growled. He never growls, ever, which was super weird. I chalked it up to his inner wolf surfacing maybe because I’d gotten too close to his food or something. “Alright, buddy,” I said, “keep your pants on.” I adjourned to my office and started work at my computer, promptly forgetting about it. But close to lunchtime, it became apparent something was wrong.
Franco was padding up and down the hall as usual, a behavior I always found neurotic. All at once, I turned from the computer to find him standing in the doorway, staring through me, an empty look in his eyes, lips curled over teeth. My stomach plunged. “You okay boy?” His expression didn’t change. He didn’t recognize me. I was an intruder.(less)