You sit still in your bed, afraid to fall asleep. With the memories of the early evening fresh in your head, you can't even begin to question {how/i} you are able to sleep after what had happened two hours ago. You had just came home from a cartoonist's conference when you heard yipping in the basement. You remember, upon reaching the staircase's bottom, seeing a stranger, syringe in hand, instrument plunged into the fur of Hugo, your loving German Shepherd.
You screamed the dog's name.
Ran.
Punched the stranger square in the jaw.
But the strange man escaped, leaving Hugo with a needle stuck in his side, the lever already pushed in to the maximum.
You remember the pain.
Blood.
Sweat.
Howling.
Crying.
The dog was now sleeping at the foot of your bed, curled up, dreaming whatever dreams dogs dream of. Your only concern was Hugo's health. Did the syringe contain a harmful disease? A virus?
You turn over onto your side. Maybe those questions will all be answered tomorrow.
You wake up the next morning, still bleary-eyed, still tired. As you get dressed, you hear a bark emanating from the kitchen. "Time to fill the bowl up," you murmur as you head downstairs to the dining area. When you arrive at the kitchen, however, you are surprised to discover that Hugo...
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