"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 3: The Great Dane

Something hard had slammed into my back. My balance was off and I had dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. I looked up in time enough to see a four legged, mass of blackish-red galloping toward the door just after it trampled me.

The impact with the floor had thrown my vision out-of-whack and for a moment I had lost sight of whatever it was that had run me down. All I knew is that it was an animal of some sort. I strained my eyes to bring the four-legged-freight-train-of-an-animal into focus.

It was just a dog. An extremely large dog. I had never seen the breed up close and personal but right away I knew it was a Great Dane.

It skidded to a halt when it learned that there would be no exit. It trotted in circles in front of the door, sporadically glancing back at me, beckoning for me to remove the barrier, and provide the avenue of escape.

"Easy, now," I said.

I picked myself up off of the floor.

The dog stopped in mid-stride and faced me. It lowered its head and trained its red pupils on me, ears falling to the sides of its huge cranium.

I dipped back down to one knee to appear less threatening.

"It's okay," I said. "C'mere. I won't hurt you."

To my relief, the dog's ears had pointed upwards, keying in on the sincerity in my tone. It moved toward me, its head swinging like a pendulum on the long neck that supported it.

"That's it," I cooed as I stood.

The dog stopped.

"You hungry?" I asked it.

I took backwards steps to the duffel bag that I had left on the staircase.

The red pupils followed me, watching my every move.

"I think I got something for you," I said.

I had made it a point to ensure that my motions were as deliberate as possible as I reached into my duffel bag for the package of bologna. A smile crossed my face when the dog came toward me to satisfy its curiosity.

I pulled the treat from the duffel bag and held it up for the dog to see. I removed a few slices and tossed it to the floor at its front paws.

Eyes pinned to me, the dog lowered its head, sniffed the bologna but showed no other interest.

"I don't think I have anything else you would want," I said.

I opened the duffel bag to double check.

"I got mayonnaise, PB and J, chips...stuff like that," I said.

The dog sniffed the bologna once again, leading me to believe that it had changed its mind.

"Go on, try it," I said.

Without even a hint of interest in the offering, the dog turned toward the door and peered back at me, clearly wanting out.

"I guess you just want to go, huh?" I said.

At that moment, I wondered how it had even gotten in the house to begin with.

I shouldered the duffel bag and headed to the door to oblige, scooping up the slices of bologna off of the floor along the way.

As I neared the door, the dog wagged its thick tail. I reached out, prompting the dog to sniff my hand, a sign of friendship to calm it down. Being a dog lover, ordinarily I would have stroked its back a few times but the Great Dane reeked, smelling of concentrated sulfur. Not only did it not smell healthy, its appearance was grotesque, horrid. Its blackish-red coat was matted in some places and shedding in others. The jet black nails from its hugs paws were long and badly in need of trimming. And red pupils?