Cujo by Stephen King

biscuits. He always kept a few on hand for Cujo, who was one of your old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool good dogs.
    He found a couple in his shirt pocket and held them up.
    â€œSit, boy. Sit up.”
    No matter how low or how mean he was feeling, the sight of that two-hundred-pound dog sitting up like a rabbit never failed to tickle him.
    Cujo sat up, and Gary saw a short but ugly-looking scratch healing on the dog’s muzzle. Gary tossed him the biscuits, which were shaped like bones, and Cujo snapped themeffortlessly out of the air. He dropped one between his forepaws and began to gnaw the other one.
    â€œGood dog,” Gary said, reaching out to pat Cujo’s head. “Good—”
    Cujo began to growl. Deep in his throat. It was a rumbling, almost reflective sound. He looked up at Gary, and there was something cold and speculative in the dog’s eyes that gave Gary a chill. He took his hand back to himself quickly. A dog as big as Cujo was nothing to get screwing around with. Not unless you wanted to spend the rest of your life wiping your ass with a hook.
    â€œWhat’s got into you, boy?” Gary asked. He had never heard Cujo growl, not in all the years the Cambers had had him. To tell the truth, he wouldn’t have believed ole Cuje had a growl in him.
    Cujo wagged his tail a little bit and came over to Gary to be patted, as if ashamed of his momentary lapse.
    â€œHey, that’s more like it,” Gary said, ruffling the big dog’s fur. It had been one scorcher of a week, and more coming, according to George Meara, who had heard it from Aunt Evvie Chalmers. He supposed that was it. Dogs felt the heat even more than people did, and he guessed there was no rule against a mutt getting testy once in a while. But it sure had been funny, hearing Cujo growl like that. If Joe Camber had told him, Gary wouldn’t have believed it.
    â€œGo get your other biscuit,” Gary said, and pointed.
    Cujo turned around, went to the biscuit, picked it up, mouthed it—a long string of saliva depending from his mouth—and then dropped it. He looked at Gary apologetically.
    â€œYou, turnin down chow?” Gary said unbelievingly. “You?”
    Cujo picked up the dog biscuit again and ate it.
    â€œThat’s better,” Gary said. “A little heat ain’t gonna killya. Ain’t gonna kill me either, but it bitches the shit outta my hemorrhoids. Well, I don’t give a shit if they get as big as fucking golfballs. You know it?” He swatted a mosquito.
    Cujo lay down beside Gary’s chair as Gary picked up his screwdriver again. It was almost time to go in and freshen it up, as the country-club cunts said.
    â€œFreshen up my ass,” Gary said. He gestured at the roof of his house, and a sticky mixture of orange juice and vodkatrickled down his sunburned, scrawny arm. “Look at that chimbly, Cuje ole guy. Fallin right the fuck down. And you know what? I don’t give a shit. The whole place could fall flat and I wouldn’t fart sideways to a dime. You know that?”
    Cujo thumped his tail a little. He didn’t know what this MAN was saying, but the rhythms were familiar and the patterns were soothing. These polemics had gone on a dozen times a week since . . . well, as far as Cujo was concerned, since forever. Cujo liked this MAN , who always had food. Just lately Cujo didn’t seem to want food, but if THE MAN wanted him to eat, he would. Then he could lie here—as he was now—and listen to the soothing talk. All in all, Cujo didn’t feel very well. He hadn’t growled at THE MAN because he was hot but simply because he didn’t feel good. For a moment there—just a moment—he had felt like biting THE MAN.
    â€œGot your nose in the brambles, looks like,” Gary said. “What was you after? Woodchuck? Rabbit?”
    Cujo thumped his tail a little. Crickets sang in the rampant bushes. Behind the house,