The kitchen was dark, except for the light of the open refrigerator. The sound was the first thing you heard: a soft “clink... clink...” metallic, like a spoon hitting against ceramics.

When you came in... you saw it.

Your dog. Or so it seemed.

Sitting on a chair, with a bowl in front of him.

A box of cereal poured its contents at a leisurely pace, and a spoon moved, with disturbing precision, from the bowl to its snout. Held by one of its front legs.

Like a human.

The movement was unnatural. Methodical. Every time the spoon touched his fangs, he smiled a little more.

He looked directly at you.

Not with joy. Not with affection.

With conscience.

And then... he got up.

His hind legs creaking as he lengthened, bones adapting in an impossible way to hold him upright. Like you. Like a human.

His smile widened. Too much. As if his jaw was designed to stretch to touch his ears.

“He looks like your dog...”

”...But he’s not your dog.”