The Meatloaf

Two olive eyes glare at me. I guess they're really more like spots. They belong to it. It being the thing my father keeps speaking of eating. We know all too well that he won’t. It’s obviously years past its expiration date. It’s at least eleven years old, the eleven year old meatloaf.

 I don’t recall when it started to lose the pan shape. Sometimes it looks vaguely square, but more often than not, it just... is. Shape is hard to describe once hair sprouts, long hair. It’s not all the same color. There’s orange, white, black, but mostly a variety of browns, ranging from a beige to a dark chocolate. Oh, did I mention that it has legs?

 It stalks around the house sometimes. Often, it follows me, making... noises, but it will also sit under my desk chair when I’m working, or just lounge on my bed, which is mostly what it does. In the night, I can hear it rumbling from somewhere in the dark. Waking up with its longest hairs up my nose, or in my ear, is not a favorite sensation.

 We’re not exactly certain if it is intelligent. Dad says it has the IQ of a tongue depressor. If it is remotely sapient, I believe that The Meatloaf is secretly plotting to take over the house, possibly the county. It might be interested in using us as a food source. It tastes me once a month or so, but its motives are unclear at this time. I’m certain it goes through the papers I leave out while I’m at school. It would, quite possibly, be unstoppable, if it had thumbs. 

We have lived peaceably, The Meatloaf and I, these many years. While it has sprouted teeth, nothing much comes from biting me or rubbing its drool or snot on my bare toes. I feed it because, honestly, I’m afraid of what it would eat if I didn’t. It will attack or even chase after our pets, and I will swat at it. Every once and awhile, I try to talk to it, but either it doesn’t understand or doesn’t care.