A little before seven on Monday morning, Betty woke to the sound of someone trying to break into her house. At least that was what it sounded like to her. . . .

It was that scruffy dog again. Jack Jones’s mongrel. The dog crouched down, whimpering, and despite Betty’s bitter feelings toward her neighbor, she felt a tinge of pity for the poor, dirty animal. And Betty didn’t even like dogs.

Go home, you foolish thing, she said. Go bother your owner.

The dog just whined.

Betty knelt down with the screen still between her and the dog. Go home, she said again. Shoo!

But the dog didn’t budge. And now Betty didn’t know what to do.

Publish Date : 2009-09-01T00:00:01Z