CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – Soul r**e* 1 *
Wilfred saw the dog too late.
All he could do was to try and hold it off, catching it with both hands at the throat. The problem was - he had to drop the shotgun to do it.
“f**k!”
The dog gnashed the stumps of its hideous teeth. They looked like a row of yellow Ticonderoga pencil stubs, laced with greasy drool. Wilfred didn’t care. He was seriously pissed and had begun battle-ranting.
“I am the fireman, the marriage counselor, sheriff and now I am the f*****g dog catcher.”
The dog’s teeth got closer.
Wilfred forgot all about his comedy routine.
An unlikely cavalry charged to the rescue. Some little guy in a plaid shirt up and grabbed the shotgun. Wilfred tried desperately to hold the dog far enough out from his body to guarantee not being shot.
