The moment they walked in the door, Tiggy knew. She knew she was no longer the baby of the family.
There were signs, of course. Grace kept cradling her belly as if, without the support, the contents would flop all over the floor. Tiggy licked her lips at the thought. There was a wonderful smell that trailed after Grace.
Tiggy smelt the change in Grace the night Matilda was conceived. Lemony with a hint of rain.
It wasn't just the absolute change in scent as Peter helped Grace into the house; it was the total disregard for her.
Four days since Matilda came home and there had been no walk (the worst insult) and they had only fed her twice (not the worst insult).
It didn't matter if she sat by the door and whined, which usually worked in the past. It didn't take Peter long to realise his error, and he'd saunter up to the coat stand, grab the lead, click it in place, and open the door. Fresh outdoor smells awaited their twists and turns the highlight of any dog's life.
Now, all that can happen is she lets herself out the back doggy door, does what she needs to do, check the perimeter, before reluctantly go back inside where it was warm.
Tiggy sat by the door of where they slept and thought about shitting there and then, but then recalled a small smell from the back fence.
A little nudge, and the true smell hit her. Meat. Somewhere just beyond was fresh meat.
It didn't take much and Tiggy was out. A broken garbage bag revealed the leftovers of the Jones' dinner.
Satisfied, Tiggy left in search of something better.