Waits

I can hear it outside, in the wind or the dripping wet of night. I hear it breathing, scratching padded feet on thick wood doors and bearing its head and squinted eyes towards lighted windows. I can hear it cry! It cries for vengeance, to drive us each to terror, to make me fail my wit and better judgment. A cold hand reaches for the door, but I won’t be mistaken, and the beast will not feed here again. I will be stronger than to submit to its dark whim, I will not feed the beast, nor make the transformation into beast myself. I must remit from even touching the knob, the beast would hear it with its keen ears and surely be upon me by the time a questioned look outside could prove fruitful. It was my fate to be pressed against a door, begging for a sound to prove he has left or stayed.

An hour had passed, and the terror has slowly worked its way out of me. I listened; I watch and waited, as it became clear that this beast meant to chose our home to feed. It passed by in a slow pace, keeping a watchful eye on any exit. Such waiting is an effort in...

*"Alfred, let the fucking dog in the house, he's freezing and hungry".

To what do I owe this nonsensical exchange? I’ve made it very clear that I hate dogs!