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Until that moment, the dog had been sleeping hard, sprawled on his back, hind legs splayed, front legs relaxed on his chest, the paws nearly touching, his neck craned at a seemingly impossible angle which found his muzzle, upside down, flush against his left shoulder. Until that moment, the only sound in the dark bedroom was the soft duet of man and dog snores and the faint tick-tick-tick of a small square alarm clock on the floor next to his scuffs. There was no breeze to disturb the drape of cloth over the open window on this cool autumn night, just after three in the morning. Until that moment, there was no sound to rouse the dog, and the flicking of his paws, the movement of his whiskers, the soft whine and the jerky breathing would have shown, had anyone been watching his antics, the dog was chasing some delectable prey in his dreams. Then, somewhere beyond the confines of the room, the faintest of footfalls. At the first slight noise the dog's ears twitched, but he did not waken for, at least for the moment, all was silent once more. But his level of sleep was no longer as deep, and the darting snowshoe rabbit which had lately been nearly in his jaws vanished to run again some other night. At the second noise, the dog's eyes flew open, and he rolled quickly and noisily from his back to his belly, ears pricked and unblinking stare fastened on the covered window. From the back of his throat a tentative grumble, not yet a growl, was heard, were anyone listening. The man slept on, sprawled half on his face, half on his left side, his back towards the open window and his dog who was becoming increasing agitated. There was no further sound beyond the drapes and the screening over the window, for a moment. Then, the voice sexless in its breathy delivery, two words drove the large dog of indiscriminate breed into an infuriated burst of barking, throwing himself in rage from his mat beside the bed to the window itself, roaring his defiance at whoever had just said "I'm here" from the other side of the wall. At the first bark the man, completely awake in an instant, rolled off the bed in the direction he had been facing while asleep, fell to his knees with the bulk of the bed between himself and the window, a large workmanlike revolver trained precisely on the faintly lighter oblong on the far wall that delineated the window itself. "Quiet," he said sharply, and the dog stopped all noise as though a switch had been thrown. "Come," he said, and the dog was at his left side as he knelt there, only the tremor in the dog's shoulder showing he was still on full alert. "Who's out there?" the man called. No one answered. "What in hell do you want with me?" the man said. No one answered. "Leave me alone, or I'll put a bullet in you!" the man said. A faint laugh, almost noiseless, answered that. Then, "I'll be back" the disembodied voice said. There was no further sound. In time the dog, sensing that the intruder was no longer within reach, lapsed into sleep again. The man slumped in a chair, the gun still across his thighs, watching the window grow brighter and brighter with the approaching dawn. Once the sun was above the garage roof of his neighbor's place across the street and so bright in his eyes even through the gauzy drapery he was squinting, he at last stirred. After replacing the heavy gun in its holster under the bed, the man stepped over the dog's body at his feet, stooping to scratch the animal's thick rib cage and massage his ears, the dog glassy-eyed with pleasure. "Good dog -- good dog," he said, pulling himself erect and walking to the closed and locked door to his bedroom. He was implementing as many precautions as he could, these days. Something must be done about this situation before, one, he killed somebody, or two, somebody -- whoever it was -- killed him. And yet, he could use this to his advantage. He'd just about figured how during the long night. He'd think about it some more. |