The dog--her dog--growled at me the night I killed her. I took the elderly spinster's precious hoard of jewelry and cash and fled. The dog, a massive beast, would have torn me limb from limb had I not had the revolver. It leapt at me, and I shot it in the chest. My hand was splattered with its blood.
That was last week. Now the dogs bark, yell and growl day and night, even in my dreams. I cannot silence them – nor can I wash away the damned blood of the old woman's dog from my hand.
Often I toy with the idea of placing the muzzle of the gun against my forehead and squeezing the trigger. That seems to be the only way to put an end to the unholy sound of those damnable, vengeful dogs.