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This time the dream occurred in her kitchen. A huge black pot filled
all four burners on her stove and bubbled over with black ooze. Strangely, the dream-state Mary Beth felt a feeling
of inner peace and satisfaction at whatever it was she was creating in her kitchen. The sleeping Mary Beth felt
it too and woke a short while later on her own accord. No "Eeeeaaat Peeeete" filled her head this time,
just a nice, relaxing, "Aaahhh".
Mary Beth got up and went back to the kitchen. She was starving and wanted to fix herself a huge meal. But just
as she was about to retrieve the necessary ingredients, she spotted the large pot on her stove. A pot she hadn't
left there before she went to bed. "Uh oh," she muttered. She had heard of sleepwalking before, but sleepcooking
was a new one. She tentatively inched in closer to the pot and touched the lid. It was hot. And the pot was heavy.
Something was cooking inside of it. Something, she had a feeling, was a dog called Pete. With her stomach in knots,
she edged towards the window and slowly raised her eyes to look outside. But there was no Pete to be seen. No little,
black Pug with its forever-drooling mouth and snorting nose. No yapping, devil-spawned dog anywhere at all. Only
a calming peace now pervaded the neighborhood.
Mary Beth looked back towards the pot and grinned and shrugged. "Oh well. What's done is done," she said,
as she put her oven mitts on and lifted the pot from the stove. "No use crying over spilt…mutt." She
laughed at her little, inside joke. Still, she had no intention of eating the damn thing. She did, however, want
it out of her house and her life, forever.
She crept outside and made her way to the garbage can that sat on the sidewalk. Looking away, she pushed the lid
off and prepared to dump the pot's belongings inside. But just before she started to pour, she heard a familiar
voice. "Yoo-hoo, Mary Beth." It was her neighbor, Mrs. O'Reilly. Mrs. O'Reilly, the owner of Pete. Mary
Beth gulped and turned to face her neighbor, who was walking up to her even as she repeated her yoo-hooing.
"Morning, Mrs. O'Reilly," Mary Beth said, forcing a smile on her face.
"Why, it's just past twelve, dear," Mrs. O'Reilly replied, grinning from ear to ear.
"Oh, yes. I meant good afternoon." Mary Beth's heart wrenched at the thought that she was holding Mrs.
O'Reilly's cooked, dead dog in her sweating, oven-mitted hands. She had nothing against Mrs. O'Reilly, after all,
just her dog: Satan's minion, the evil dog, Pete.
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