A Dave is for Life

Dave emerged one winter’s evening as a yelping ball of fur decanted by Mum from a cardboard box onto the kitchen floor. Cute and cuddly and full of life, the Johnson children fell immediately and completely in love. From that moment on, Dave was the very centre of their world. Mum and Dad loved this new addition to the family and the wonderful effect he had on the kids. Life was good for the Johnsons and their new charge and for the next few years, they shared countless happy family moments with their little puppy. He was one of them. He completed them.

Then, one summer’s evening, not long after child number 2’s fifth birthday, Mum pushed open the kitchen door as she did every day and set down her bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. She could hear the kids laughing somewhere in the house, accompanied, as always, by Dave’s contented yelps. All was well and Mum smiled quietly to herself. Stepping over to open the fridge, Mum slipped slightly on the tiled floor but managed to right herself. What had the kids spilt this time? Those kids! Milk. Not again, she thought. Tut tut.

Grabbing a handful of kitchen towel, Mum bent down to mop up the milk, then stopped. Drops of milk led in a small trail from the kitchen through to the living room. It’ll be on the carpets, she thought! That’ll be a bugger to shift! Stepping carefully between the drops, Mum made her way to the living room. She could hear the kids playing with Dave inside and gently pushed open the door. Mum’s eyes followed the drops of milk at her feet across the carpet to where Dave lay against the far wall. Suddenly, the room fell away and everything dropped to slow motion. There was Dave, propped up on his back, looking for all the world like a little hairy human, tongue lolling, legs spread wide, tackle out, happy as could be. And there were the kids, laughing at either side, but now looking up in slow motion, their faces dropping as Mum entered the room, both reaching up to wipe congealing milk from around her mouths as Mum’s gaze now fell back to Dave, tongue still lolling, covered in the white stuff.

But what drew Mum’s gaze – what really sent her into meltdown – were Dave’s gently swaying breasts. She felt compelled to look more closely in mounting horror as she fell unsteadily to her knees. These were no dog breasts. Dave, it seemed, had somehow developed smooth, fully-developed, alabaster-white human breasts and had been suckling her children in her own living room. Heavy and perfectly rounded, Dave’s breasts were topped with thick, rubbery teats of the deepest red that even now dripped with Dave’s own rich milk. There they sat, quivering slightly as Dave panted, the left teat periodically spurting small leftover drops into the dark hair of his scraggy doggy belly. With these breasts, Dave was mocking Mum and her years of selfless motherhood, usurping her in her own domain. How could this have happened? How could she not have noticed Dave’s breasts before? This was all too much to take. The edges of Mum’s vision began to grey and she blacked out, slumping to the living room floor to lie cheek-down in Dave’s sticky milky residue, dead.

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