Chuck, my favorite prey, is no more. That is at least what M tells me. He is broken, she says. I do not see the point. I can still drag him around with me, I don’t care whether he consist of one or two parts. They easily fit into my mouth. But M will throw him away, she tells me. This is what Chuck looks like now. He changed into an extended version of himself:
M thinks I will be sad about it, so she bought me a new prey. She just gave it to me and tells me this is Chuck, too.
Ha! I can’t be fooled: this is not Chuck. He does not smell nor taste like Chuck.
This ain’t Chuck, this is Chick!
I don’t mind, though. I like to play with Chick. Maybe even more than I did with Chuck, because Chick makes squeaky sounds when I bite her. Nice.