A Nasty, Spiteful Dog
Jack could snore something fierce. Allen hated being disturbed while he slept, and so would shout at Jack several times until the old yellow cur settled down.
“Shut up that racket, Jack!”
Thelma liked to host weekend parties that lasted long into the summer night. Soft music, punctuated with loud bursts of gay laughter, floated out across a moon-lit millpond, where it kept not only the small creatures of the dark amused, but also little children who nestled under warm covers out on the screened-in porch.
A young man, also named Jack, drank too much one night, and passed out on a sofa. Thelma tidied up her kitchen after the last of the other guests left, while Allen tended to doors and lights. Soon the house lay dark and stilled, and distant frogs began their own chants.
Hours later the aged hound took to his snoring and fitful snorting.
Allen awoke in a rage.
“Shut up that damn racket, Jack! Right this minute!”
A muffled voice slurred from the next room,
“Shut up yourself, you son of a bitch.”
The husband bolted upright and shook his wife hard.
“Thelma! Did you just hear that dog talk back to me?”