Those shadows will suck you into a whole new world. But what really gives away the doggo is not a helpful Lassie are the shadows, darker than dark, swirling about the killer canine. Even without looking inside its muzzle, I know viscous slobber covers several rows of razor-sharp teeth. It’s three times as wide as my hips, and I’m, as my daughter’s generation puts it, “thicc.” Under a sleek coat of slate-gray fur, sinewy muscles ripple. The arch of its back reaches about as high as my chest, and I’m about 5'6", not tall but not short either. Besides the glowing red eyes, there’s no mistaking the hellhound for a lost pooch or a coyote on the prowl. The reek of sulfur was what had given away the hellhound circling my neighbor’s begonias long before I spot the glowing red headlights where eyeballs should be. Luck is on my side, sort of, as I am downwind of the monster, not the other way around. After pressing the bud in my right ear, the music ceases. I stop dead in my tracks, my heart thudding faster than the beat in my earbuds. No one expects to run into a hellhound on their pre-dawn run in the Seattle suburbs, not even me, and I’ve had a long history with the stinky mutts and their master.
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