They had been so cute and adorable, but now they are scrawny and full of jagged edges. I watch the way the pom-chi likes to tear at my mother's flesh the same way she would tear up a toy, relishing it's cotton innards. It's sickening. Like watching a man at the rodeo being gored by a bull, but you can't seem to look away. It's fascinating, strange even. A common place thing that centuries of domestication held at bay. It's an eat or die world for them. The idea that they are literally biting the hand that fed them is lost on them. Thank you owner, for this last meal. They seem to say as they bow their heads for another rending and ripping of flesh. Thankfully, I am out of range. I know they would try to eat me as well, I, a live prey animal that a pack can quickly take down. Fresh marrow to lick clean. My stomach churns and I finally look away. I place the binoculars in my old ratty pack and sit a moment longer, waiting to see if I'll lose my stomach contents or not.
