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"I hear that dog meat is considered a delicacy in certain regions of South-East Asia," Hannibal hints, the third time he sees a dog walking in after Will, past the threshold of the front door. Hannibal had noticed an increase in the number of dogs in the pen outside, but he had foolishly assumed that the dogs had made friends or bred.
It took the appearance of a Chihuahua for Hannibal to understand that perhaps, there was something amiss. A German Shepherd and a Dachshund together did not make a Chihuahua. One of his proteges was actively contributing to the increasing numbers of animal wildlife, and now, Hannibal had determined which one.
"He followed me home," Will says, voice indifferent. The effect is ruined when he bends down to scratch behind the dog's ears. "It must have smelt the filet-mignon from yesterday."
"The only way it could have," Hannibal answers, with an edge in his voice, "is if you had spilt any of it onto your clothes."
Will tried another tack. "Jake's an old police dog. Had a jacket and everything. They lose their ability to smell after a while and the K-9 squad were going to put him down if they didn't find a taker. Five years of service - Jack doesn't deserve that."
"I suppose being eaten as a meal is less wasteful than being euthanised and buried," Hannibal said, eyebrow raised. "What a sublime idea - I'll look up recipes tonight."
That got Hannibal a scowl. "Jake deserves better than that; a mate and a litter of puppies, maybe. He might be interested in the Golden Retriever out back," Will continued. "You should let the dogs out of the pen more."
That would defeat the point of having a dog pen. The dog pen was a place to keep dogs; out of sight, out of mind. Hannibal never fed the dogs. He figured that if they got hungry enough, they would turn on each other. Hannibal had actually, fully expected this to happen at least two months ago, but a quick look out the window told him that the dogs were instead, well-fed and lazy.
Hannibal turned back to Will. "How can I let the dogs out of the pen 'more'," he said slowly, "when I don't let them out to begin with?"
Will flushed bright-red. He opened his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by the door opening.
It was Clarice. That was not unusual; Clarice normally made it home after work at about this time. What was unusual was the small hedgehog she held in her arms. Clarice absently mindedly scratched one of the hedgehog's quills as she loosened her belt, dropped her hand-gun onto the table and began to step out of her work-clothes.
The two men watched her disrobe in silence. It caught her attention after a while.
"What?" she said defensively, wearing a singlet and white underwear. "It's got a broken leg. I couldn't just leave it on the road."
"No, it's nothing," Will said.
"This house is not a veterinarian's office," Hannibal said. "All of these animals have to go. Or I find alternative ways of making them disappear," he added darkly.
"It's scientifically proven that pets promote all aspects of child development," Clarice replies. "Physical, social, emotional, cognitive."
"There are no children in this house which would benefit from child development," Hannibal argues.
"There will be," she hums.
The hedgehog goes into a make-shift cage bordered by books. Clarice feeds it leftovers from the fridge; beef which he had been planning to grind into bolognese for tonight's meal.
For a moment, Hannibal contemplates his life. He thinks of a child made with parts from his most favourite people in the world and wonders which characteristics would mix, while Will is slowly freaking out in the background.
"Alright," Hannibal says. "Keep the animals."
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