Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
RUPERT AND VENOM
“Oh my gods, are they seriously mating AGAIN?” Venom asks, turning his yellow eyes to Sir Rupert Bartholomew III—a name that suspiciously had never left the human’s mouths, yet which the dog insisted was his proper title. It was strange, but the cat was happy enough to entertain the larger species if it kept him complacent.
Venom tries to drown out the human woman’s screams, to no avail. “They must do it at least thrice a day. For what purpose?”
“I do not know. I’ve sniffed the female's stomach for puppies every day, and there is nothing,” Rupert replies, laying his head on his paws in an attempt to drown out the horrible cries coming from the female. “I do not know why she keeps letting him try when he is so woefully unsuccessful.”
Venom stretches his claws, kneading them into the pillow on the sofa. “Have you ever stopped to think that your sniffer is broken? Surely by this point, some cubs would have appeared.”
“Suppose it’s not—what do you say we do?”
Venoms retracts his claws, settling Rupert Bartholomew III with a piercing stare. “Murder, of course. The male is defective.”
Rupert rolls his eyes. “I would never do that to my master.”
Venom flares, his claws shooting out. “Then you surely have never received your dinner twenty minutes late.”
Rupert huffs, fixing Venom with his strange-colored eyes. “I’ve told you this before—we do NOT hurt the ones who give us food. It is a sacred, well-kept tradition, and it must never be broken.”
“Says the canine,” the cat quips. “Why would I listen to you? I can’t think of a single good thing your kind has done for my species. In fact, you do more harm than good.”
“That is not our fault. You look like easy prey.” Rupert huffs. “Should you not run so fast, we might not give chase. Should we not chase, we might not do harm.”
“What kind of oxymoronic nonsense is that?” Venom cries. “My gods. This is what society has come to. Animals mating for no purpose and to no end. Dogs talking down to cats. I can't believe my grand-cat was right…”
“One can have grand-ancestors?” Rupert whines, forgetting the earlier conversation as his tail flails behind him. “I have never met one of mine.”
“That is because your kind is… weaker…” Venom explains. “More… dumb. The gods do not smile kindly on you.”
“Oh…” Rupert looks off to the side, his tail drooping sadly. “I see.”
“N-not that your kind doesn’t have enough to offer,” Venom continues, a pang of guilt ringing in his chest at the canine's melancholy expression. “It is said that you have large hearts—that you hold so much love in your body, it wears on your very bones. You can only be in this world for so long; otherwise, it will overflow with goodwill and happiness.”
“Oh!” Rupert exclaims, his tail taking off again. “That makes sense. In that case… I shall be the most loyal, loving companion there ever was! I shall kiss my masters every day and show them how good I am! Even if they are defective!”
The cat tuts, shaking his head in amusement. “Silly canine. Do you not realize all that extra effort will shorten your life?”
“But, of course,” the dog answers, his tail flapping happily against the ground. “And I will gladly shorten my years. For what is the point of life, but to love? Especially when I have so much to give.”
And as the cat gazed upon the canine—at its pure, simple innocence—he finally understood.