Cujo

Today I was attacked by Cujo. You know Cujo. That stupid, evil, rabid dog of Stephen King's imagination.

Apparently he's real.

Let me set the stage:
Miserable widow up waaaaay too early after a night (scratch that, several weeks) of minimal sleep. All she wants is a nice hot cup of tea and some breakfast.

Widow has recently moved into a basement suite with, what might be, the world's worst neighbours living upstairs. Ah the sweet, sweet smell of pot constantly eminating through the vents along with a lingering hue of cigarette smoke always hovering in the air. My sinuses have never hurt so much in my life.

And naturally, Evil Neighbours also have... you guessed it... Evil Dog. Pitbull, of course. It barks, it's ugly, I want to throw snowballs at it. But I don't. I refrain. I try very, very hard to ignore it. Love all God's creatures, even the evil ones.

So I'm in my basement suite kitchen, newly made cup of tea in one hand, tuna sandwich in the other (yes, I eat tuna sandwich for breakfast... don't judge me). In the upper corner of the kitchen is a small-ish window that does not have curtains. The window just looks out into the fenced-in backyard, so who cares.

Well I happen to glance up and who has their face pressed right up to the glass with Satan's expression written across his ugly face?

Freaking Cujo the pitbull.

My scream was so high pitched I'm pretty sure only dogs could hear. Which is probably why he jumped almost as high as I did and took off.

Tea goes flying.

Tuna sandwich lands face down with a splat.

Widow has a heart attack.

Bloody Cujo. I hate that dog.

Am now sneaking upstairs to build a snowfort in the yard that I can bury Cujo in where he won't be heard from again until spring.

Which in this weather might not be for a few more years.