Potatoes
Soot clung to the fog as if it was spun into it, like sugar gets turned into cotton candy. The black wetness blocked the sun making it look like a flashlight seen through wet, dirty glass.
Two men sat on stones outside a building with broken windows. A fire lit up their faces with orange light and shadows. They were wearing clothes they had found, and were eating with their fingers.
Don’t feed potatoes to the dog.
And why not?
It makes them crazy.
Wood burned in the camp fire, and hot ashes glowed orange in the dim light.
Potatoes don’t make dogs crazy.
They do. Don’t feed the dog any potatoes.
The dog was a short hair, with white and black spots. It looked at the potatoes and the two men eating.
I don’t believe that; I don’t believe that potatoes make dogs crazy.
It’s true, I read it.
No you didn’t. Potatoes don’t make dogs crazy.
They do if you feed it to them, sure.
No way.
Yup.
The man licked potato off his fingers. The dog looked at him and licked it’s nose.
What else is there to feed the dog? All we have is potatoes. Five potatoes.
I don’t know. But you’re not feeding the dog potatoes.
The dog has to eat. All we have is potatoes.
No. You’re not. Potatoes make dogs crazy.
A log in the fire pit snapped, shooting sparks into the air. The fire warmed the men. The dog laid down close to the pit and curled into itself, watching the men eating the potatoes.
Look. Potatoes are food. Dogs eat. It’s not like chocolate. Dogs can eat potatoes.
Potatoes are members of the nightshade family. Causes dogs to go crazy.
The nightshade family? Why would that make a dog crazy?
I don’t know. I read it.
The dog is hungry.
The dog lifted its head and looked at the men.
If you feed my dog potatoes, I’ll kill you.
No you won’t. The dog is hungry.
You feed my dog potato? I’ll kill you.
You won’t.
The men licked potatoes off their fingers.
This was a lucky find.
What?
The potatoes.
Oh. Yeah. I know. The dog should eat.
The dog will find it’s own food. Don’t feed my dog potatoes. I told you, I’ll kill you.
The man threw the dog a piece of potato. The other man stood up and pulled a pistol from his waistband, and pointed it at the man who threw the potato to the dog. He pointed it, and pulled the trigger making a hole in the other man’s forehead above the bridge of his nose.
The man looked at the man with the hole in his forehead, who stared into the blackness of eternity and fell off his stone and onto the dirt face first.
The man licked potato off his dirty fingers, and tucked the gun back into his waistband. He whistled at the dog.
Here. Want his potatoes? He’s not going to finish them.