As I wrestled Dean Martin under my arm, the dog threw himself left and right, his eyes bulging with fury, his outraged yapping filling the silent building.
As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square of light, listening to the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed to see my father's face looking in at me.
There was the far-off yelping of possum dogs in the dark swamp under cool autumn moons and the smell of eggnog bowls, wreathed with holly at Christmas time and smiles on black and white faces.
" Oo, a big barking noise, oo, help, ah" , but he doesn't really bite very much. You know, he's not dangerous. He can make a lot of noise, but he doesn't really do a lot of damage.