Since the Hound of Satan is no longer able to chew the postman, he’s settled for chewing the post instead.
All of it.
I’ve tried everything to stop him but nothing works. I tried coating letters with a devastating mixture of hot chilli powder and wasabi paste but he just licked them until his eyes went red. I tried hiding small fireworks in a package operated by a cunning pressure device, but he disabled it with a deft flick of a screwdriver before tearing the box to pieces and spitting gunpowder all over the floor.
I even tried sitting him down and reasoning with him. Look, Satan, this will have to stop. You ripped up that speeding summons (which, admittedly, might be no bad thing). You tore my bag of unmarked thousand-euro notes to flitters. You put little toothy puncture marks all over my new passport and now I can’t flee to Argentina.
He just sat there gnawing on the forearm of a Jehovah’s Witness and snarling at me in ancient Greek.
Why couldn’t you be a normal dog? I said. Chasing cats and barking at nothing?
Snarl, he replied.
That was when I noticed the unchewed envelope.
Gimme that, I said.
Grrrr, said the dog.
Give me that fucking envelope.
Look! A postman!
While he was gone I gently lifted the envelope from his basket and drew out the letter it contained.
Dear Satan, it read, I enclose a bank draft for four billion dollars. Many thinks for your help setting up the business. Your friend, Mark Zuckerberg.
I hardly noticed the soft padding or the clickety-clack of his nails on the floor as Satan re-entered the room. When I turned around, he was dressed in an old anorak and holding a can of Dutch Gold.
He regarded me for a moment or two and a faint sneer played across his lips. So, human. It seems you have discovered my secret. Well, at least the charade is over. No more chasing cars and eating whatever foul slops you put in front of me.
Where is it? I demanded. What did you do with the money?
Money? What money?
The money in the fucking envelope, I screamed. The four billion dollars.
I found no money in the envelope, said the dog, puffing on a spliff. All I found was a piece of paper. A receipt or something.
That’s it, I said. The piece of paper. Where is it?
Where do you think it is? he replied. I ate it. I’m a fucking dog.
I hate that animal.