Roger prodded the shape with a piece of scaffolding. It took both hands and most of the muscles in his back to wield the hunk of steel, his young frame rigid. After a couple of attempts the form on the ground flopped over, revealing a belly alive with maggots. Margo dry wretched, Roger not so dry.
He took up the tool again and moved the head to face them. The layer of fur was matted with blood and an eye had already been purloined by some scavenger. Its teeth it bore, at once threatening and impotent.
"What do you think it was called?" Roger asked after holding back another urge with his hand.
"I don't think it was a pet."
"I never said it was."
"Well then it doesn't have a name."
"Everything has a name."
"Stupid."
"I think it's name was Errol. It looks young don't you think? I reckon it didn't mean to die like that, however that was. It probably lost its family. I reckon it knew it was going to die though. See those teeth? Defiance. Know what that means? It means 'ain't going to go easy'. That's what my Dad says: "We ain't going to go easy". Sometimes I think he's angry with me when he says it. He's angry with something but I don't think he's angry with me. He says: "We ain't going to go easy. You and me boy. We ain't going to go easy. Not you, not me". Sometimes when he says it I make sure to give him extra ice cream when I get the dessert and sometimes it works. He ain't cross no more."
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