Barking at Butterflies

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Damn dog barked at everything.

Sounds nobody else could hear, in the middle of the night the damn dog barked at them.

"He's protecting us," Carrie would say.

Protecting us. Damn dog weighs eight pounds soaking wet, he's what's called a Maltese poodle, he's protecting us. His name is Valletta, which is the capital of Malta. That's where the breed originated, I suppose. Some sissy Maltese nobleman must've decided he needed a yappy little lapdog that looked like a white feather duster. Little black nose. Black lips. Black button eyes. Shaggy little pip-squeak named Valletta. Who barked at everything from a fart to a butterfly. Is that someone ringing the bell? The damn dog would hurl himself at the door like a grizzly bear, yelping and growling and raising a fuss that could wake the dead in the entire county.

"He's just protecting us," Carrie would say.

Protecting us.

I hated that damn dog.

I still do.

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