“Ruth! Will you shut that damn dog up? I’m trying to take a nap.”
Ruth wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. Paul was always crabby on Sundays before dinner, especially if Pastor Bean’s sermon hit home as well as today’s. Paul really did drink too much sometimes.
“Sorry, Paul.” She looked out the window to see if there was a deer or maybe a hobo. She herself wasn’t overly fond of the dog, but it was a good alarm system– these days, you couldn’t be too careful. And her stepson loved it so.
The dog barked and barked.
She heard Paul heave himself off the couch, slam cursing out of the screen door. Through the window a white and russet streak of dog bounding away as Paul tried to kick it.
“Goddamn mongrel mutt!” he screamed. “I should put a fucking bullet in your head!”
He stormed into the kitchen. “Where’s that goddamned boy? Where the hell is Timmy?”