“Yeah,” Bogle’s face lit up. “Eggs and fruit and cawfee. I didn’t get much to eat last night. There was so much talking and shouting and people going off into faints.”
“You wouldn’t like to cover up Whisky, would you?” I said. “He really is getting on my nerves.”
“Maybe he ain’t well,” Bogle said, looking at the dog with puzzled eyes.”
“With Pablo inside him, I don’t wonder at it.”
Whisky rolled over on his side and looked at me. There was something strangely human about the expression in his eyes. “How right you are, old dog,” he said in a deep, guttural voice. “He lies like a rock on my stomach.”
“There you are,” I said to Sam. “I knew he couldn’t be well.” Then I clutched my pillow and looked at the dog in horror.
Myra stifled a scream and stood petrified, but Bogle didn’t seem to be moved.
“You know it sounded almost as if that dog spoke,” I said a little feverishly.
“Sure,” Sam returned. “What of it? He’s been talking to me half the night.”
“What of it?” I repeated, stupefied. “Have you ever heard a dog talk before?”