I’m a mad dog, a terrible creature who will be miserable my entire life through until a shell pierces my skull. She doesn’t like me. She’d just as soon see me dead. Mostly she’d like her ankle back.
I don’t know exactly why I bit her ankle. I hate ladies—I hate this lady: hate; hate; hate her. But I love having her ankle in my mouth. I’m so used to having this ankle in my mouth. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t bite it anymore. Would life be as sweet? Would I have all those fantasies again about ankles?
Would I feel lonely? Would I long to have my mouth fill with her blood?
Do I even like blood? I don’t know–I’m a dog. I’m bred to hang on, so I do.
She was nice to me, once. She fed me, scratched my ear, but then I ran away. When I came back she said that she was “really quite allergic.” She felt better without me. But that’s not gonna work with me. NOBODY walks away from me. I’ll bite. That’s all there is to it. I’ll show her.
She’s wondering how she can get rid of me. But she can’t. She can’t cut off her foot. That’s not really a solution. I don’t think she’ll go for the old silver bullet. I mean she could wind up worse off than me. She thinks I’ll get tired and fall off, or maybe I’ll get hungry, or distracted.
I mean, what if we pass a really good Bar B Que? Oooo that smell…that smell might get me.
Oh look, a ball–a kid with a ball. I could go for a ball.
(catches himself almost distracted enough to let go) She is so frustrated; trapped by a dog this way. She really cannot believe this is happening to her. She’s busy. I know ‘cause she keep saying that to me after she stops screaming.
And she’s bleeding. Her strength is bleeding away. Yeah, right in my mouth.
She screams out ”Won’t someone please shoot this dog? Please, if I circle back around the block one more time, will you please have your gun ready and try to shoot the dog? Shoot the damn dog and don’t shoot me? Please.”
But she is panting so hard, nobody understands her. Just like a dog.