The Tommyknockers by Stephen King Page A

been.
    Peter’s snarl turned to a strangled sound— yark !—as Anderson pulled him back by the collar. He turned his head, and in Peter’s rolling red-rimmed right eye Anderson saw what she would later characterize only as fury at being turned from the course he wanted to follow. She could acknowledge the possibility that there was a flying saucer three hundred yards around its outer rim buried on her property; the possibility that some emanation or vibration from this ship had killed a woodchuck that had the bad luck to get a little too close, killed it so completely and unpleasantly that even the flies seemingly wanted no part of it; she could deal with an anomalous menstrual period, a canine cataract in remission, even with the seeming certainty that her dog was somehow growing younger.
    All this, yes.
    But the idea that she had seen an insane hate for her, for Bobbi Anderson, in her good old dog Peter’s eyes . . . no.
3
    Thatmoment was thankfully brief. The door to the ward shut, muffling the cacophony. Some of the tenseness seemed to go out of Peter. He was still trembling, but at least he sat down again.
    â€œCome on, Pete, we’re getting out of here,” Anderson said. She was badly shaken—much more so than she would later admit to Jim Gardener. For to admit that would have perhaps led back to that furious leer of rage she had seen in Peter’s good eye.
    She fumbled for the unfamiliar leash which she had taken off Peter as soon as they got into the examination room (that dogs should be leashed when owners brought them in for examination was a requirement Anderson had always found annoying—until now), almost dropping it. At last she managed to attach it to Peter’s collar.
    She led Peter to the door of the waiting room and pushed it open with her foot. The noise was worse than ever. The yapper was indeed a Pomeranian, the property of a fat woman wearing bright yellow slacks and a yellow top. Fatso was trying to hold the Pom, telling it to “be a good boy, Eric, be a good boy for Mommy.” Very little save the dog’s bright and somehow ratty eyes were visible between Mommy’s large and flabby arms.
    â€œMs. Anderson—” Mrs. Alden began. She looked bewildered and a little frightened, a woman trying to conduct business as usual in a place that had suddenly become a madhouse. Anderson understood how she felt.
    The Pom spotted Peter—Anderson would later swear that was what set it off—and seemed to go crazy. It certainly had no problem choosing a target. It sank its sharp teeth into one of Mommy’s arms.
    â€œCocksucker!” Mommy screamed, and dropped the Pom on the floor. Blood began to run down her arm.
    At the same time, Peter lunged forward, barking and snarling, fetching up at the end of the short leash hard enough to jerk Anderson forward. Her right arm flaggedout straight. With the clear eye of her writer’s mind Anderson saw exactly what was going to happen next. Peter the beagle and Eric the Pom were going to meet in the middle of the room like David and Goliath. But the Pom had no brains, let alone a sling. Peter would tear its head off with one large chomp.
    This was averted by a girl of perhaps eleven, who was sitting to Mommy’s left. The girl had a Porta-Carry on her lap. Inside was a large blacksnake, its scales glowing with luxuriant good health. The little girl shot out one jeans-clad leg with the unearthly reflexes of the very young and stomped on the trailing end of Eric’s leash. Eric did one complete snap-roll. The little girl reeled the Pom in. She was by far the calmest person in the waiting room.
    â€œWhat if that little fucker gave me the rabies?” Mommy was screaming as she advanced across the room toward Mrs. Alden. Blood twinkled between the fingers clapped to her arm. Peter’s head turned toward her as she passed, and Anderson pulled him back, heading toward the door. Fuck the