said Mr. Monroe. “Dog?” “Dawg,” said Bud. He flipped the fish in the frying pan. Spud spat. Dawg dragged himself to his feet and, drool and all, headed in our direction. “He looks a little like Max,” I commented, trying to cheer myself by bringing to mind a friendly bulldog of our acquaintance. “Yeah, the way a rattler looks like a garter snake. Happy Saint George’s Day,” Chester said, and the hairs continued to rise all the way down my back. “What kind of mutt do you call yourself?” Dawg growled as he came closer. His teeth were stained and pitted like old linoleum. “Nonviolent,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t catch the tremor in my voice. He snorted, sending a waft of rancid breath my way, and started to circle me, sniffing. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s this humiliating sniffing routine that passes for a handshake in the dog world. I would have suggested that he “give me five,” but I was a little too nervous. Besides, I didn’t have the feeling Dawg was the kind of old dog who was keen to learn new tricks.
