Dear Goddamned Beagle,
I saw it just as you did – some amorphous blob of putty-peanut butter-colored stuff tucked between some dry leaves by a wall. Well, I sort of saw it. What I really saw, to be honest, was the unnatural gleam of your suddenly-even-more-protruding eyes as you saw it, lunged for it and got it into your mouth.
You clenched your jaw as I tried to reach for it, but I know enough now to back off quickly. There’s a real chance you’ll choke someday purely due to your unwillingness to relinquish anything you find on the street, so I back off immediately and watched.
You started to chew, but then your face showed something different as your head tilted. A few pieces of the stuff fell out (I rushed you onward to at least prevent you from going back for those), and you made wide, sticky chewing motions. Gum? No, not gum. Gum doesn’t crumble. Peanut butter something? Too chewy and crumbly. Wood fill? Possibly.
Your mouth contorted as you tried to bring the stuff down from up between your cheek and jaw line, and from the roof of your mouth. You tilted your head to the left, swung your chin in wide circles as your tongue worked out and in to dislodge. You kept chewing, and you kept walking.
You chewed for a block and a half.
When you were done we looked at each other, me waiting to see any immediate effects of the substance, you in what I suspect was the beagle equivalent of, “whoa.”
After a moment we moved on and headed home, you occasionally working out some last glob-chunk and chewing it down.
I’m not sure you liked it, Beagle, but you sure owned it.