<p>Ed McBain</p><p>Barking at Bufferflies</p>

Damn dog barked at everything.

Sounds nobody else could hear, in the middle of the night the damn dog barked at them.

"He's protecting us," Carrie would say.

Protecting us. Damn dog weighs eight pounds soaking wet, he's what's called a Maltese poodle, he's protecting us. His name is Valletta, which is the capital of Malta. That's where the breed originated, I suppose. Some sissy Maltese nobleman must've decided he needed a yappy little lapdog that looked like a white feather duster. Little black nose. Black lips. Black button eyes. Shaggy little pip-squeak named Valletta. Who barked at everything from a fart to a butterfly. Is that someone ringing the bell? The damn dog would hurl himself at the door like a grizzly bear, yelping and growling and raising a fuss that could wake the dead in the entire county.

"He's just protecting us," Carrie would say.

Protecting us.

I hated that damn dog.

I still do.

He was Carrie's dog, you see. She rescued him from a husband-and-wife team who used to beat him when he was just a puppy-gee, I wonder why. This was two years before we got married. I used to think he was cute while she was training him. She'd say, "Sit, Valletta," and he'd walk away. She'd say, "Stay, Valletta," and he'd bark. She'd say, "Come, Valletta," and he'd take a nap. This went on for six months. He still isn't trained.

Carrie loved him to death.

As for El Mutto, the only thing on earth he loved was Carrie. Well, you save a person's life, he naturally feels indebted. But this went beyond mere gratitude. Whenever Carrie left the house, Valletta would lie down just inside the door, waiting for her to come home. Serve him a hot pastrami on rye, tell him, "Come, Valletta, time to eat," he'd look at me as if he'd been abandoned by the love of his life and never cared to breathe again. When he heard her car in the driveway, he'd start squealing and peeing on the rug. The minute she put her key in the lock, he jumped up in the air like a Chinese acrobat, danced and pranced on his hind legs when she opened the door, began squealing and leaping all around her until she knelt beside him and scooped him into her embrace and made comforting little sounds to him: "Yes, Valletta, yes, Mommy, what a good boy, oh, yes, what a beautiful little puppyboy."

I used to joke about cooking him.

"Maltese meatloaf is delicious," I used to tell Carrie. "We'll pluck him first, and then wash him real good, and stuff him and put him in the oven for what, an hour? Maybe forty-five minutes, the size of him. Serve him with roast potatoes and-"

"He understands every word you say," she'd tell me.

Damn dog would just cock his head and look up at me. Pretended to be bewildered, the canny little son of a bitch.

"Would you like to be a meatloaf?" I'd ask him.

He'd yawn.

"You'd better be a good dog or I'll sell you to a Filipino man."

"He understands you."

"You want to go home with a Filipino man?"

"Why do you talk to him that way?"

"In the Philippines they eat dogs, did you know that, Valletta? Dogs are a delicacy in the Philippines. You want to go home with a Filipino man?"

"You're hurting him."

"He'll turn you into a rack of Maltese chops, would you like that, Valletta?"

"You're hurting me, too."

"Or some breaded Maltese cutlets, what do you say, Valletta? You want to go to Manila?"

"Please don't, John. You know I love him."

Damn dog would rush into the bathroom after her, sit by the tub while she took her shower, lick the water from her toes while she dried herself. Damn dog would sit at her feet while she was peeing on the toilet. Damn dog would even sit beside the bed whenever we made love. I asked her once to please put him out in the hall.

"I feel as if there's a pervert here in the bedroom watching us," I said.

"He's not watching us."

"He's sitting there staring at us."

"No, he's not."

"Yes, he is. It embarrasses me, him staring at my privates that way."

"Your privates? When did you start using that expression?"

"Ever since he started staring at it."

"He's not staring at it."

"He is. In fact, he's glaring at it. He doesn't like me making love to you."

"Don't be silly, John. He's just a cute little puppydog."

One day, cute little puppydog began barking at me.

I came in the front door, and the stupid little animal was sitting smack in the middle of the entry, snarling and barking at rne as if I were a person come to read the gas meter.

"What?" I said.

He kept barking.

"You're barking at me?" I said. "This is my house, I live here, you little shit, how dare you bark at me?"

"What is it, what is it?" Carrie yelled, rushing into the hallway.

"He's barking at me," I said.

"Shhh, Valletta," she said. "Don't bark at John."

He kept barking, the little well-trained bastard.

"How would you like to become a Maltese hamburger?" I asked him.

He kept barking.

I don't know when I decided to kill him.