Jesse

Not the way he barked at squirrels, which was lazy and half-hearted and mostly for show.

This was the bark a beagle makes when it's cornered something dangerous.

Rapid, high-pitched, hysterical.

And it was coming from right outside my bedroom door.

I sat up.

The room was dark.

The window was a faint gray rectangle.

I could hear Captain in the hall, barking at the back door of the house, which was about six feet from my bedroom.

Then Captain stopped barking and started whining.

The same high, thin whine I've heard described in other accounts.

A dog that's gone past aggression and into fear.

Then Captain went silent.

I got out of bed.

I opened my bedroom door.

The hall was dark.

I could see Captain at the end of the hall, pressed against the wall, trembling, staring at the back door.

The back door had a window in it.

A small square of glass, about 12 inches by 12 inches, set in the upper half of the door.

Through that window, I could see the yard.

The security light on the barn was on, casting a yellowish cone of light across the gravel between the house and the barn.