When the dog didn’t come that afternoon he went back and looked in. He paced back and forth outside the opening and almost put milk there anyway. No, the dog would never leave then.
He went home and spent a sleepless night. The dog didn’t come in the morning. Again he went to the house. He listened at the opening but couldn’t hear any sound of breathing. Either it was too far back for him to hear or…
He went back to the house and sat on the porch. He didn’t have breakfast or lunch. He just sat there.
That afternoon, late, the dog came limping out between the houses, moving slowly on its bony legs. Neville forced himself to sit there without moving until the dog had reached the food. Then, quickly, he reached down and picked up the dog.
Immediately it tried to snap at him, but he caught its jaws in his tight hand and held them together. Its lean, almost hairless body squirmed feebly in his grasp and pitifully terrified whines pulsed in its throat.
“It’s all tight,” he kept saying. “It’s all right, boy.”
Quickly he took it into his room and put it down on the little bed of blankets he’d arranged for the dog. As soon as he took his hand off its jaws the dog snapped at him and he jerked his hand back. The dog lunged over the linoleum with a violent scrabbling of paws, heading for the door. Neville jumped up and blocked its way. The dog’s legs slipped on the smooth surface, then it got a little traction and disappeared under the bed.
Neville got on his knees and looked under the bed. In the gloom there he saw the two glowing coals of eyes and heard the fitful panting.
“Come on, boy,” he pleaded unhappily. “I won’t hurt you. You’re sick. You need help.”
The dog wouldn’t budge. With a groan Neville got up finally and went out, closing the door behind him. He went and got the bowls and filled them with milk and water. He put them in the bedroom near the dog’s bed.
He stood by his own bed a moment, listening to the panting dog, his face lined with pain.
“Oh,” he muttered plaintively, “why don’t you trust me?”
He was eating dinner when he heard the horrible crying and whining.
Heart pounding, he jumped up from the table and raced across the living room. He threw open the bedroom door and flicked on the light.
Over in the corner by the bench the dog was trying to dig a hole in the floor.
Terrified whines shook its body as its front paws clawed frenziedly at the linoleum, slipping futilely on the smoothness of it.
“Boy, it’s all right!” Neville said quickly.
The dog jerked around and backed into the corner, hackles rising, jaws drawn back all the way from its yellowish-white teeth, a half-mad sound quivering in its throat.
Suddenly Neville knew what was wrong. It was nighttime and the terrified dog was trying to dig itself a hole to bury itself in.
He stood there helplessly, his brain refusing to work properly as the dog edged away from the corner, then scuttled underneath the workbench.
An idea finally came. Neville moved to his bed quickly and pulled off the top blanket. Returning to the bench, he crouched down and looked under it.
The dog was almost flattened against the wall, its body shaking violently, guttural snarls bubbling in its throat.
“All right, boy,” he said. “All right.”
The dog shrank back as Neville stuck the blanket underneath the bench and then stood up. Neville went over to the door and remained there a minute looking back. If only I could do something, he thought helplessly. But I can’t even get close to him.
Well, he decided grimly, if the dog didn’t accept him soon, he’d have to try a little chloroform. Then he could at least work on the dog, fix its paw and try somehow to cure it.
He went back to the kitchen but he couldn’t eat. Finally he dumped the contents of his plate into the garbage disposal and poured the coffee back into the pot. In the living room he made himself a drink and downed it. It tasted flat and unappetizing. He put down the glass and. went back to the bedroom with a somber face.
The dog had dug itself under the folds of the blanket and there it was still shaking, whining ceaselessly. No use trying to work on it now, he thought; it’s too frightened.
He walked back to the bed and sat down. He ran his hands through his hair and then put them over his face. Cure it, cure it, he thought, and one of his hands bunched into a fist to strike feebly at the mattress.
Reaching out abruptly, he turned off the light and lay down fully clothed. Still lying down, he worked off his sandals and listened to them thump on the floor.
Silence. He lay there staring at the ceiling. Why don’t I get up? he wondered. Why don’t I try to do something?
He turned on his side. Get some sleep. The words came automatically. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep, though. He lay in the darkness listening to the dog’s whimpering.
Die, it’s going to die, he kept thinking, there’s nothing in the world I can do.
