“He needs a real meal, Chloe,” I said.
“He has been waiting for an hour.”
My sister ignored me and picked up her heavy silver fork and knife.
On her plate lay a thick, dry-aged ribeye steak, glistening with melted garlic butter.
I looked down past her knees to the space under the table.
Coco, the French bulldog, was sitting on her hind legs, her front paws resting on Chloe’s thigh.
Her flat black nose snuffled against the white tablecloth.
Chloe sliced a thick, warm portion from the pink center of the steak.
She lowered her hand beneath the white tablecloth.
The dog snapped it up with a wet, greedy gulp.
I stood there, watching the black dog chew the prime beef.
The realization settled over me like a cold draft.
My six-year-old son was sitting in a dark hallway by the trash cans, waiting for a dry piece of bread, while my sister’s pet was fed prime beef at the head table.
I did not scream.
I did not throw a glass.
I simply looked at my sister’s hand as she reached for another piece of meat.
