"You need to go," I barked at Hubert. "Surprisingly, only Old Man Sanderson knows you’re a zombie, but if Mrs. Angleton calls an ambulance, the EMTs will discover you don’t have a pulse."
"Oh, no, they'll form a mob, kick and shoot me."
"Or you'll end up on TV," I barked.
"Oh, well, that's not so bad. I've always thought I could be a movie star."
"Oh my paw, you're as dumb as Einstein. Get out of here."
Hubert got to his feet. "I have a job to do, and I'm going to do it."
"Why? Nobody's paying you."
"What kind of question is that?"
"Sir, sir?" Einstein said and shoved his hands into Hubert’s face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Ten," the zombie moaned.
"Just go," I snarled.
"Only if you ask me nicely."
"Please get out of here," I woofed.
"Okay." The zombie staggered across Mrs. Tinkle’s front yard and cut behind the Turner's house into the woods.
"Mister? Mister?" Einstein called after Hubert. "Strange…Well, come on, Meat Head." My human smiled. "We have a project."
"I have a little project of my own. It's called, Pot Roast Break Out." I barked, following Einstein back to the house. "The rules are super simple. You free the pot roast, and I eat it."
"That’s right Meat Head. We’re going to find the giant woman, get proof that she's an alien and then get on TV."
"Oh Great Dog above, this plan is so ridiculous, I'm almost at a loss for barks."
Einstein laughed. "Sometimes, I almost think you understand English."
"I never think you understand Dog."
We tromped up the porch and down the hall, but he continued to the basement while I stopped by the oven. Beads of meaty juice rolled down the well-seasoned sides of the pork and pooled in the roasting pan. I licked my chops. Mrs. Angleton jumped in front of my view, guarding the oven like a goalie at a soccer game.
"Einstein!" she shouted. "Come get your dog! I don't like the way he's eyeing my roast!"
"He can't eat it out of the oven!"
"Just come get him!"
Einstein whistled for me. After one last sniff, I joined my human in the basement. He was sitting in his office chair, thumbing through a dozen or so pictures that he had printed from the camera's memory card. I sat down beside his chair. He patted me absently, and then traced the features of the giant's face with his forefinger. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and raced upstairs. I bounded after him.
Meat Head the Worst Dog in the World will be posted here in easy to read increments. Read for oldest to newest if you haven't been following along.
Can't Wait to find out what happens next?