The thing stood on Buck’s chest. The size of a rat, it had moist, bulging eyes that shifted nervously from behind a short snout of a nose that emitted snorting noises. Uneven black whiskers sprouted out on either side of the snout. Spindly matchstick legs looked about to collapse under the half-bald, bedraggled fur body that shook with unceasing tremors. The creature opened its mouth, emitting the horrid scent of dog breath and licked him across the lips. Buck grimaced and turned his face away, trying to escape the slimy wet tongue. “Get off me, Mouse.” He tried to bat the Chihuahua away, but barely had the strength to raise his arm. He heard a shuffling sound and turned his head in time to see Old Ted approach the bed. The man reached down, scooped up the little dog, and shoved it inside his jacket. “’Bout time you woke up.” “I’m not dead?” “Not unless the dead started talkin’ and I ain’t heard about it, you ain’t. You look like you been to hell and back, though.”
