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sideboard and came back into the kitchen.
    “What’s the matter?” Mrs. Cardossi said.
    “That dog got to stop making all that noise, barking. The neighbors going to complain to the police again.”
    “I hope we don’t have to give him to your brother,” Mrs. Cardossi said, folding her arms. “But he sure goes crazy, especially on Friday morning, when the garbage men come.”
    “Maybe he’ll calm down,” Alf said. He lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. “He didn’t used to be that way. Maybe he’ll get better, like he was.”
    “We’ll see,” Mrs. Cardossi said.
     
    The sun rose up, cold and ominous. Mist hung over all the trees and in the low places.
    It was Friday morning.
    The black dog lay under the porch, listening, his eyes wide and staring. His coat was stiff with hoarfrost and the breath from his nostrils made clouds of steam in the thin air. Suddenly he turned his head and leaped up.
    From far off, a long way away, a faint sound came, a kind of crashing sound.
    “Roog!” Boris cried, looking around. He hurried to the gate and stood up, his paws on top of the fence.
    In the distance the sound came again, louder now, not as far away as before. It was a crashing, clanging sound, as if something were being rolled back, as if a great door were being opened
    “Roog!” Boris cried. He stared up anxiously at the darkened windows above him. Nothing stirred, nothing.
    And along the street the Roogs came. The Roogs and their truck moved along bouncing against the rough stones, crashing and whirring.
    “Roog!” Boris cried, and he leaped, his eyes blazing. Then he became more calm. He settled himself down on the ground and waited, listening.
    Out in front the Roogs stopped their truck. He could hear them opening the doors stepping down onto the sidewalk. Boris ran around in a little circle. He whined and his muzzle turned once again toward the house.
    Inside the warm, dark bedroom, Mr. Cardossi sat up a little in bed and squinted at the clock.
    “That damn dog,” he muttered. “That damn dog.” He turned his face toward the pillow and closed his eyes.
    The Roogs were coming down the path, now. The first Roog pushed against the gate and the gate opened. The Roogs came into the yard. The dog backed away from them.
    “Roog! Roog!” he cried. The horrid, bitter smell of Roogs came to his nose, and he turned away.
    “The offering urn,” the first Roog said. “It is full, I think.” He smiled at the rigid, angry dog. “How very good of you,” he said
    The Roogs came toward the metal can, and one of them took the lid from it.
    “Roog! Roog!” Boris cried, huddled against the bottom of the porch steps. His body shook with horror. The Roogs were lifting up the big metal can, turning it on its side. The contents poured out onto the ground, and the Roogs scooped the sacks of bulging, splitting paper together, catching at the orange peels and fragments, the bits of toast and egg shells.
    One of the Roogs popped an egg shell into his mouth. His teeth crunched the egg shell.
    “Roog!” Boris cried hopelessly, almost to himself. The Roogs were almost finished with their work of gathering up the offering. They stopped for a moment, looking at Boris.
    Then, slowly, silently, the Roogs looked up, up the side of the house, along the stucco, to the window, with its brown shade pulled tightly down.
    “ROOG!” Boris screamed, and he came toward them, dancing with fury and dismay. Reluctantly, the Roogs turned away from the window. They went out through the gate, closing it behind them.
    “Look at him,” the last Roog said with contempt, pulling his corner of the blanket up on his shoulder. Boris strained against the fence, his mouth open, snapping wddly. The biggest Roog began to wave his arms furiously and Boris retreated. He settled down at the bottom of the porch steps, his mouth still open, and from the depths of him an unhappy, terrible moan issued forth, a wail of misery and despair.
    “Come on,” the