The short, blonde, extremely beautiful housewife was trying to ignore the alien that was pretending to be her miniature poodle. Standing in her evening-hued kitchen, knife in her left hand and carrot pinned to the cutting board under her right, the housewife could only conclude that at some point in time, a Martian or Venusian had descended to planet Earth, killed and/or eaten her Minksy and taken his place.
She knew that furry white thing wasn’t Minksy because she’d caught it, its hind legs on the desk chair, delicately tapping away with its left front paw at her laptop and browsing through her emails just that morning when it thought her asleep. She had no idea if dogs were smart enough to use computers, but even if they were, she knew Minksy wouldn’t be one smart enough to learn such a thing. To be honest, the housewife had always considered Minksy to be slightly inbred. When he’d been a puppy, he’d taken twice as long to learn his name as she’d read was normal for dogs. To this day, three years later, he still relied – or had relied – on puppy pads as he wasn’t even housebroken. Now this alien was doing a piss-poor job of imitating a stupid dog.
The housewife guessed that it had to have happened a week ago, when that severe lightning storm had laced the sky with white ribbons that boomed with house-shaking reverberations. The power had gone out across the city and the air had smelt burnt.
Minksy had panicked and gone racing out from between the housewife’s legs as she had leaned out the front door to catch a better glimpse of the storm. Barking in shrills shrieks, Minksy had disappeared into the blankets of rain before she or her husband could stop him.
When he – or rather, the alien – came back the next day, she hadn’t immediately noticed anything. She’d embraced the soggy, stinky thing, scolding it good-humourly for having run off. After being put down, he’d pranced into the kitchen and gobbled down his organic, free-range dog chow before plopping down for a nap in a square of sunshine in the dining room. All very Minksy-like. She’d had no idea that day that she was now living with a monster.
The housewife looked at the door to the basement. Her husband hadn’t come home yesterday. That same day, she had gone out shopping. When she came home, he should have been back from work too, but instead only it was waiting for her. The fake-dog was waiting and the always-open basement door was now closed. And her husband hadn’t come home.
Or rather he had, because his car was in the driveway, but he himself was not home.
The housewife took out her cellphone and dialled his number. Small claws clicked on the tile behind her and the thing barked. She put the phone down and chopped the carrot. The nails retreated, disappearing when it reached the carpet of the dining room.
With her left hand, she chopped clumsily while her right thumb hit the green ‘call’ button. From the basement, she heard his familiar ringtone. Behind her, Minksy growled.