The old dog in the mess hall.
Almost as beaten up as his master, and waited on hand and foot by him. He sleeps by the stove roughly twenty hours a day and has no teeth to speak of — “my chompers haven’t chomped anything.”
He had been cut off from the dried sausages since the incident last time he got into them.
For the promise of a whole bucket of them he gummed the keys off Lloyd’s belt while the old man was sweeping, got smacked for it, waited, and took them properly on the second try. He dropped them in Chubs’s cage covered in drool and went straight for the sausages the moment Lucky Joe threw the cabinet open.
He is the reason any of this happened.