The walls of the flat were thick enough to keep out the worst of the
perennially wet weather, secure in their stucco sturdiness.  Rain would run
down the jagged sides almost frictionlessly, and even the mail had a
difficult time entering the impregnable inner sanctum through the rusted mail
slot.

        Sound, however, did not have such a difficult time penetrating the
seeming cardboard barriers on all four sides; noises of passing trucks would
roll in the east side and out the west, rattling the utensils in the
silverware drawer as they passed in and out, like the wind.  The rustling
of the surrounding trees in the wind passed across the ordinal points in the
surround sound that only nature could provide.  The auditory distraction
could not be prevented, but generally they didn't irritate Kenneth providing
they passed along presently.

...

        A quaint enough flat, he'd thought.  The drywall's a bit flaky but
more or less everything seemed to be bang-on.  The stereo equipment could
go... yes, there, and... ah, a pantry.  Splendid.  No pets, they said?
Certainly not a problem where he was concerned.  Kenneth liked nothing more
than logical, ordered sensibility, and nothing undermined those ideals in his
mind more than the thought of animals running around for which he was
responsible.  And, ah yes, the view.  This was really what he'd come here
for.  Marvelous.  He was already setting up the tripod in his mind.
Occupation regardless, this was a pleasant assignment.  Yes, it would
certainly do well enough for a few months.  Of course, he'd have to get
settled in and get to know the neighbors...

...

        That dog was at it again.  As usual.  Not barking... that would
entail a depth of frequency which was distinctly lacking.  Yip... yip...
hork! went the dog in Kenneth's mind as he discreetly imagined throttling the
miniature canine.  He could only hold the whole dog in one hand, with the
skull neatly pinched between his thumb and index fingers.  No, no, this was
no good.  These are not healthy thoughts. He put some measured Elgar violin
concertos on the hi-fi machine and tried positive noise therapy for his
psychic ailment.  He'd only been here two weeks.  Perhaps he would get used
to it.

...

        That bloody dog was at it again.  He could imagine his pulse
quickening with every impeccably timed vocalization.  He'd given up on
counting the coughing banshee wails and instead made countless scribbled
calculations in the margins of his notes as to exactly how much his life
expectancy had been shortened by the stress caused by... yip, yip, y... yes,
yip.  In his mind's eye, the dog (calling it a dog really seemed to bestow
upon it unattainable pretensions.  Kenneth much preferred the terms
"kickdog" or "mongrel offspring of a rat and a blind hyena.") yes, dog was
still snarling and squealing only as it could in real life, and he was having
difficulty placing that image into the Poe-esque scenarios which had gotten
him through the first few months of torment.  Good - the therapy was paying
off.  So were the hours at the shooting range.

        Accomplishing work with such distraction was difficult at best, but
he was still on schedule, some four months in, and was counting the minutes
until the on-location assignment was complete.  There was a morbid snugness
Kenneth felt in that although the dog's noises were making his life torment,
he was coming to deal with it as it wasn't going away.  He also felt the
dubious vindication that the problem wasn't getting any worse, though exactly
how that could be accomplished was unclear.  Perhaps if someone were to
electronically sample the dog's voice and use its unholy noises in
arrangements of traditional Christmas carols... but no.  That was just silly.
That could never happen in a world ruled by natural law.

...

        Mongrel-Or, the Lord of Vermin, Slobber and Rubber Squeaky things,
was at it again, but Kenneth didn't care.  He was through.  Complete.
Assignment done to the utter satisfaction of his supervisor, and that was all
that really mattered, for the records.  He could hear it much as it had
become a familiar fixture of this setting and of his nightmares.  With every
guttural whine the fringes of his field of vision clouded with red, but as
each ceased, in turn, a rush of ecstasy accompanied the peace the silence
brought.  He was that many barks nearer to never having to hear any for the
rest of his (albeit calculatedly shorter) life.

        Before his great departure, however, there was unfinished business. A
civic duty, he considered it, to intervene where it seemed his neighbors had
been too spineless to venture.  Aye, fully invulnerable by virtue of his
pending departure, he would go forth into the very heart of darkness and
resolve this conflict forever.  His name would be eternally lauded in local
circles as the brave soul who vanquished the source of the infernal
cacophony, silenced the many mouths of Pandemonium itself and then
disappeared well away, stepping into a taxi cab and thus unto the annals of
history.

	He was also off of his medication at last.

...

        The noise, that noise he knew too well, fell silent as he planted his
first footfall outside the vacant accommodation, its bare walls still
reflecting the sounds of his approach.  An omen, he thought smugly. It's the
beginning of the end, and he knows it. Dogs may be able to smell fear, but he
could smell the rank stench of the mutt in the thickening silence.  You son
of a bitch, his mind continued as he crossed the street, your lawn-defecating
ass is mine.
	
        He stepped with one foot crossing the property line, half-way into
no-mans land, and reviewed mentally what he would say.  Technically, the dog
had broken no laws.  Noise bylaws, rather.  It would start and stop within
decent hours, at least considered decent by civic operators of heavy
machinery.  Five in the morning, six on Sundays and holidays, but forever in
his dreams.  Of course, the pills let him sleep beyond dreams, below any
alpha-state the dog's astral body could haunt.  It wasn't breaking any laws
for duration - the barks would come and go in furious bursts of breath
lasting no longer than three minutes each.  Kenneth had called police with
complaints several times in search of some loophole of illegality, and even
had an officer measure the decibels of the barks, but he had found nothing
amiss. Sure, but would all have still been reported as being in order if the
officer had had to live across from it for a year?  Apparently the noise was
tolerable enough for the lawyers and bureaucrats, but his ears weren't
reassured by the confirmations of the dog's legitimacy within the law.

        Still, Sherlock Holmes had defeated the insurmountable Hound of the
Baskerilles with a single well-placed pistol bullet, and the mighty Thor had
vanquished the wolf Fenrir even though it cost him his own immortal life -
surely Kenneth would find himself capable of bringing this menace to a
too-timely end.  Surely he would be able to reason with the owner.

        Yes, the masochist whose beast it was, he thought as he mounted the
front steps.  No, no, that train of thought would lead nowhere productive,
realizing that he'd have to be calm and rational to deal with this situation
successfully.  Taking a breath, he gave three sharp raps upon the door with
the door knocker, opting for its more gentle sound through the wood than the
gaudily lit doorbell.

        There.  No more doubts.  He was going through with it.  He couldn't
get out of it now.  Actually, theoretically he could run away.  No, not
anymore.  He'd waited too long - anyone answering the door would see his back
and offer pursuit.  He could... as he looked left and right in desperation,
dive into those bushes there.  Yes.  No.  No, they had thorns.  Those would
hurt.  Perhaps scar.  Still a possibility, but only for use in a worst-case
scenario.  Perhaps he could throw the owner in the bushes if a conflict rose.
Kenneth, by nature, tended to observe and exercise great inaction. The
possibility of accomplishing something though an act of his own was making
him giddy.  Perhaps... perhaps...

        Perhaps not, he felt as the sound of footsteps drew nearer and he was
almost overcome with the urge to bolt.  Every muscle in his body was tensed
for a full retreat when the door opened.

        Ah, a young lady.  Better than a Hell's Angel, ha ha.  Kenneth smiled
shyly.  She smiled back.  This was working out smashingly, far more easily
than he had expected.  No.  No, it wasn't, you arse.  Say something!

        "Hi, I'm Kenneth."  A good start, but lacking; moronic at best
 without a clever follow-up.  "I'm from across the street."  He beckoned
grandly at the empty flat.

        "Oh, a new neighbor.  I never thought anyone ever bought that suite.
I'm sorry, my name is Karen. Would you like to come in?"

        Stay.  While you are outside, you are in control, dealing only with
her.  You know all-too-well what you can expect to reside inside the lair.
Every muscle of his body was saying "yes" but somehow his mind managed to
exercise a grip on the two muscles of his lips even as he was forming the
word. "No, no thank-you.  I shouldn't be long.  Actually, I've been living
there for a year now, and this is my last day in the neighborhood," he
added.

        "All right, then," she started, obviously taken aback, "what can we
do for you, then?"

        "What indeed.  Indeed... how can I begin this... when I was a lad, I
had a dog.  As... you have, yes?"  He waited for her nod to make sure that he
had in fact gotten the correct house, then continued, "It was always quite
well-mannered.  As - as a result of my occupation I have also received
instruction on working with such canines.

        "It has been to my experience, you see, that a dog's behavior is a
direct reflection of the discipline that its' owner invests into it.  My
dogs, when I have had them, have always had impeccable behavior.  Obedient,
loyal, well-behaved... quiet . Features, notably that... er... last, which
your ... kic-er, hound... had proven to be decidedly lacking."

	"You came over to complain about my dog?"

        "Absolutely.  To be particular, the noise it generates.  Like a
banshee's wail, a flock of seagulls keening over a beached whale's cadaver, a
steam locomotive powered by a furnace which feeds on infant sheep."

        "I'm sorry, but this is a rather indignifying manner to confront the
problem.  Have I, er, we, rather, broken any noise bylaws?"

        Kenneth spat the word out like a piece of wormy fruit. "No.  No laws
broken  No written laws, rather.  The laws of the land, however, dictate
that, much as it is too late to have any beneficial effect on me, for the
benefit of the rest of the neighbourhood I must find some way for your canine
to be silenced, presumably by you, but, in a worst cast scenario, by myself.
For the common good, you see."

        "The proper channels to address such a problem are through the city -
without the due process you have no right within the law to tell me what I
should or should not have to do with my dog."

        This was not how things were supposed to go.  She was supposed to
invite him into the house again (he would cede) then offer him a cup of tea,
and they were to laugh and laugh over the misunderstanding of the dog they'd
merely been keeping for a friend which she was to return later that day.
This sort of confrontation didn't fit into his reality, and, to be frank,
Kenneth was beginning to panic.

        Taking a step forward as he mentally adopted an aggressive stance,
he continued, with one foot in the house.  "This is no longer a matter of
civic affairs.  This... this is a matter of mental anguish, of a tragic
despair and the destruction of a great man's psyche.  I'm sorry to hear of
your fondness for the dog, but there is more at stake here than a casual
relationship with a ball of fur.  Can't you see it in my eyes?"  He gestured
manically at his bugged-out orbs with crooked fingers and continued, "Can't
you see that if I don't resolve this it will ultimately destroy me?  That it
has already begun to?"

        Karen, backed into the coatroom, stared for a few seconds in shock as
the dignified English gentleman who she had pleasantly met a few minutes
before recovered from a speech which had ended in a shrieking statement and a
sobbing fit.

        "I think that, for your own sake, it would be best if you left my
house before I called the police."

        He huddled gasping by her feet for several minutes as he tried to
regain his composure, but then his eyes alighted upon something which put a
spark of triumph in his inky pupils and a nefarious smile across his face.

        "Fancy," he started slowly, calmly, "fancy that in all this time I
never once surmised that there might have been some motivation to the dog's
hysteria; that he might have been crying out from abuse.  Perhaps I have been
blaming an innocent for terrible deed - perhaps you are the culprit, having
been inflicting unspeakable tortures upon your dog!"

        "What are you talking about?" Karen humoured the man as she backed
towards a telephone.

        "This!"  He reached out to snatch two items which had been lying next
to the door, straightened abruptly, and brandished them dangerously.  A
studded leather collar and a leash.  Karen failed to see their relevancy.

        "Do not think that I remain unwary to your perverse and morbid
entertinment now!  This, this is the clincher; the key that locks the cell
and the straw that breaks the donkey's back."  He threw the collar to the
ground and wrapped one end of the leash around his wrist, tightening and
snapping the taut material between his hands.

        "I think that," she began again, "for your own sake,
it-would-be-for-the-better-if-you-were-to-leave-my-house
before-I-call-the-police!."

        "And I... should hope for your sakes", he replied with eyes bulging
out, speaking with the searing, percussive manner of an Englishman enraged,
"that while engaged in your obscene and immoral acts of lust and passion with
your dog and... gimp! that he should not at some point manage to gnaw through
the restraints you inflict upon him, else he may tear out your throat while
you lay defenseless, handcuffed to the wall in your little game of masochism
and dominating - really!  After putting the so-called man's best friend
through such a gamut of acts condemned even in the Bible itself!  you have
the audacity to threaten me with policemen and the thought of law. I - I
should be glad to be moving away from this den of iniquity before," and he
stopped to catch his breath, then continued, his growing fury apparent by the
manner in which he was putting the emphasis on the wrong syllables, "before
they find your body covered in miniature bite marks as the canine's revenge
for having loved it in more-than-the-manner-of-a-pet!  True; while you lack
the natural equipment for deriving genuine pleasure from the sodomy of an
innocent animal, perhaps you have equipment hidden elsewhere in the house
which you utilize for that purpose - one with straps, perhaps?  or a
pneumatically powered dong?"  The look in Kenneth's eyes betrayed the fact
that his mouth had betrayed him - he wanted to stop talking before his speech
got more preposterous but his mouth, just warming to the activity, wouldn't
let him. 

        "Perhaps you merely rake it with thorns or studs, thrash it with
whips and chains?  Or perhaps you get someone else to do it for you, some
boyfriend or cult member or - or perhaps you are part of a ring!  while you
engage in other such acts of sin and depravity, taking pictures, no doubt!  I
defy you, DEFY YOU! to defend yourself against such INSURMOUNTABLE evidence!
Dog-raper!  To think that," and here he was forced to get some more air to
complete his rant, "that all this time I was living across the street from
Gomorrah.  You sicken me, you human filth.  I hope that they find your
armless body in the bottom of the river - that's what happens to perverts
like you."

        Karen was smiling peculiarly.  "I will have you know that what you
are so emphatically waving around are the dog's own collar and leash, which
we utilize when giving him walks around the neighborhood. I have phoned the
police and they are on their way.  I recommend that you depart, to England or
wherever you are from, before they arrive to return you to whichever mental
institution you have evidently escaped from."

        Kenneth had lost the argument.  He had lost control.  Evidently he
hadn't been quite ready to quit the medication yet, too.  His face turned
ashen at the defeat, then white, and he ran down the steps, never to be seen
on that side of the ocean again.

...

        Karen, dead phone ringing a dial tone in her hand, breathed a sigh of
relief  Then, she marched upstairs determinedly, her own growing anger
apparent by her stomping, and, once on the second floor, threw open a door
and viciously slapped a man sprawling in the bed there across the face.  He
woke up, bewildered, as she pointed a riding crop in his face and said,
"Forget your window fetish - from now on, we CLOSE THE CURTAINS!"

SAUCE00That Darned Dog                    Cthulu              Mistigris           19970224ÚD