There’s a stray dog living under my porch. I know because I can feel the eyes watching me when I take out the trash. I turn around and shine my light to the place I know it has claimed, the eyes come alive  with a hot fury in the dark.  

I can hear the scratching and groaning under the floorboards. As I am lying in bed at night, in the space  between awake and asleep, the dog’s whines turn into whispers. It is almost as if it is begging and  pleading from the chamber below. For what, I am not yet sure.  

I never notice the stray dog’s presence during the day, but when the sun sets, it howls long and low. I  find myself too afraid to feed the dog, but I know it waits. Starving for an invitation to stay, to come  inside. Every night it is on the prowl for an opening. 

Most nights it's just me and the stray dog and at times I almost have sympathy for the creature. Though,  I think it tries to distract me while I am making dinner, and one of these days the knife I am holding may  cut more than just the food.  

I know, eventually, my curiosity will get the best of me. I’ll gratify the hidden things in the dark that  should not be sustained. I will cut out a slice of me for the dog to enjoy.