His palms were scraped, his shoulder ached, his butt was bruised, his jeans were torn, his shirt was a mess... "Damn faggin bunghole suck nob," he hissed as he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pressure on his palms. There were twin blood-splatters on the pavement from his hands, and he cursed a little louder. "Shitfaced piss fudge!"
His eyes slid briefly to the money on the hood- looked like a pair of bills, probably 20s- before he turned and limped a little to the open trunk. In the trunkbed was, among other things, a bicycle tire, a string of Christmas garland, a tube of tennis balls, and at least six pairs of various sizes and styles of boots- rain, climbing, and working being only some of them. He shoved the tennis balls over to reveal a set of bottles, some with spray nozzles on top, and some with regular plastic screw-on caps. He selected a white solid one with a red spray nozzle. There was no logo to be seen, but he already knew what it contained, and pulled it out to tend to the blood on the cement.
It would be just his luck if the wrong person happened to smell his blood in a city of this particular diverse population.
But when he stepped away from his truck toward the stained curb, he had an unobstructed view of the other side of the sidewalk, and was able to spot the source of his current problem. A dog, fairly scrawny but still big enough to come to his hip in height, lay on the sidewalk, facing him. Its legs, though, were thick, slightly more feline than canine, quite similar to… but no, this was way too small to be one of those. Caleb dismissed the thought without further consideration, and instead focused on the white bag that sat a seemingly safe distance from the beast. More importantly, he could see from here that the teeth marks never reached past the top fold. That meant the burger was still intact and untainted by dog saliva.
Caleb almost reconsidered his opinion of the creature’s pedigree. It felt a little too much like a play trap. But then again, plenty of normal dogs played with their toys in the same sort of manner, so he shrugged and knelt to begin purging his blood from the sidewalk.
All the while, that dog watched him, tail wagging the tiniest bit every time it saw him look in that direction toward the burger. He snorted and turned away, irritated despite himself. What did he care that the stupid mutt have the burger?
Because he had nothing to bring home for dinner that day. He hadn’t received a call from Brian, so no one was complained of a misordered burger for him to pick up. Being a staff member meant he got to enjoy one free meal a day, but he had already taken that as his lunch.
I should probably eat something other than burgers anyway, he told himself, pulling the trigger for the spray bottle. I’m probably already gaining weight. I should eat something healthy for dinner. Like a salad. Or… another salad.
As if on cue, his stomach grumbled. It was a #9 special, afterall. They were all good, but that one had bacon, guacamole and barbeque grilled mushrooms, huge ones that spread across the meat like a bun. And besides, he could always eat healthy tomorrow.
But there was also that dog to worry about, and he was positive that it was just waiting for him to reach for it, taunting him before it would snatch it away from him.
So what? It was a dog. He had trained to deal with worse.
“Fine,” he muttered, raising to his feet and tossing the bottom back into the truck bed. He glanced at the burger and canine still waiting patiently. “Mutt, you try any funny business with me, and I promise you’ll regret it.”
And he started walking toward the bag, eyes always on the dog who’s eyes were always on him.