The dog is dead
A small fireplace illuminated the room and its weak heat warmed our dinner. My father killed it this morning, its name was Loyal, he slid the axe through its throat like it was another tree trunk. He asked, before and after the kill, if I knew why it had to be done. I understood, since the war started all supplies were cut off from the rest of the realm.
I carved the flesh with my milk teeth, it had a stronger flavour than any of the rotten fruits we've been eating. Everyone in the kingdom was in the same struggle, even the king. When all cats and dogs are gone, what will we have left to eat?
I looked at father eating Loyal like Loyal ate its meals. He had his back to the fire, very little light reached his face, only enough to show his rough facial features: smooth skin on top of the head with a few white hairs on the side, long nose and a fat chin hidden behind a beard of grey and black tones.
"Where you lookin', boy?"
"Nowhere," I squeaked.
I felt spiky furs scratch my naked feet, in legs too short to reach the floor. I turned my head down to see a rat under the table. It briskly moved away on my sight, it was next to father's feet, its tale slapping his shoes.
The carving knife cuts through its neck, I look to my father looking down at the rat, he takes out the blade and drops it onto the table. He picks his dinner and before giving a bite he says:
"The dog is dead. A rat will do," he looks me in the eyes, "when the rats are gone, a child will have to do. Let's hope we soon win the war."