THE HUNDRED-AND-TWELFTH PAGE

As a glob of slobber fell to the carpet, the beast followed it by collapsing on his haunches. Sighing in the manner of the dog race, his eyes flopped shut and appeared to fall asleep immediately.

My recreational reading, Mr. Connell’s MRS. BRIDGE, was set aside and I went to the computer room to read the unpublished and unpublishable and to prepare my manuscript report. When I returned to the living room a couple of hours later the dog was still asleep, but had shifted to his backside and lay with his paws sprawled in the air. This could have been his death position, so I nudged him firmly in the side. One does not fancy calling the police about a dog found dead in the living room; they’d already had a tour of the house on another occasion. The eyes suddenly snapped open, but as quickly snapped closed. It was evident that he was not dead nor did he care to halt his slumber.

A chilling wind blew through the open door. The dog slept. The door slammed. The dog slept. The sun went under a cloud, which discharged a bolt of lightning and a thunderclap that could have heard as far as New York City. The dog slept. After the storm, night set in around the house. The dog slept.