Pulling back the plunger, Greg stepped out of the car again, smiling easily. The dog, which had settled down on its haunches, immediately got up again and began to advance on him, growling.
Greg kept smiling. ‘That’s right, poochie,’ he said in that pleasant, carrying voice. ‘You just come on. Come on and get it.’ He hated these ugly farm dogs that ran their half-acre of dooryard like arrogant little Caesars, they told you something about their masters as well.
‘Fucking bunch of clodhoppers,’ he said under his breath. He was still smiling. ‘Come on, doggie.’
The dog came. It tensed its haunches down to spring at him. In the barn a cow mooed, and the wind rustled tenderly through the corn. As it leaped, Greg’s smile turned to a hard and bitter grimace. He depressed the Flit plunger and sprayed a stinging cloud of ammonia drops lets directly into the dog’s eyes and nose.
Its angry barking turned immediately to short, agonized yips, and then, as the bite of ammonia really settled in, to howls of pain. It turned tail at once, a watchdog no longer but only a vanquished cur.
Greg Stilison’s face had darkened. His eyes had drawn down to ugly slits. He stepped forward rapidly and ad-ministered a whistling kick to the dog’s haunches with one of his Stride-King airtip shoes. The dog gave a high, wailing sound, and, driven by its pain and fear, it sealed its own doom by turning around to give battle to the author of its misery rather than running for the barn.
With a snarl, it struck out blindly, snagged the right cuff of Greg’s white linen pants, and tore it.
‘You sonofabitch!’ he cried out in startled anger, and kicked the dog again, this time hard enough to send it rolling in the dust. He advanced on the dog once more, kicked it again, still yelling. Now the dog; eyes watering, nose in fiery agony, one rib broken and another badly sprung, realized its danger from this madman, but it was too late.
Greg Stillson chased it across the dusty farmyard, panting and shouting, sweat rolling down his cheeks, and kicked the dog until it was screaming and barely able to drag itself along through the dust. It was bleeding in half a dozen places. It was dying.
‘Shouldn’t have bit me,’ Greg whispered. ‘You hear? You hear me? You shouldn’t have bit me, you dipshit dog. No one gets in my way. You hear? No one.’ He delivered another kick with one blood-spattered airtip, but the dog could do no more than make a low choking sound. Not much satisfaction in that. Greg’s head ached. It was the sun. Chasing the dog around in the hot sun. Be lucky not to pass out.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing rapidly, the sweat rolling down his face like tears and nestling in his crewcut like gems, the broken dog dying at his feet. Colored specks of light, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, floated across the darkness behind his lids.
His head ached.
Sometimes he wondered if he was going crazy. Like now. He had meant to give the dog a burst from the ammonia Flit gun, drive it back into the barn so he could leave his business card in the crack of the screen door.
Come back some other time and make a sale. Now look. Look at this mess. Couldn’t very well leave his card now, could he?
He opened his eyes. The dog lay at his feet, panting rapidly, drizzling blood from its snout. As Greg Stillson looked down, it licked his shoe humbly, as if to acknowledge that it had been bested, and then it went back to the business of dying.
‘Shouldn’t have torn my pants,’ he said to it. ‘Pants cost me five bucks, you shitpoke dog.’
He had to get out of here. Wouldn’t do him any good if Clem Kadiddlehopper and his wife and their six kids came back from town now in their Studebaker and saw Fido dying out here with the bad old salesman standing over him. He’d lose his job. The American TruthWay Company didn’t hire salesmen who killed dogs that be-longed to Christians.