Pretzel's bark was the dog equivalent of a TV anchorman's delivery: a rich, resonant bass, pulled from deep in the chest and released with perfect pitch and tone control.
Only it was almost unbearably loud inside the passenger compartment of Paisley's car. (They'd left Celeste's Hyundai in Akron. If Paisley had left the Toyota, Mitch might have taken it.)
"Can't you shut that thing up?" said Paisley as she pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store.
As usual, Baron ignored her. "BAROOOO!" said Pretzel.
"Maybe they sell earplugs in here." Celeste wished the dog would settle down. She'd already had to fight to get Paisley to let him into her car.
One of Pretzel's big, mangled paws flopped over the seat back and onto her shoulder. Birth defects had deformed the mixed breed
