“Poor Doughty’s nails didn’t have much purchase on the balsa; maybe that frightened him. He could have made it; the terrarium had sagged to a point and then stopped. But he cowered at the border, his four feet clamped in earth. A bright fireman got him, though not until the police were called too. After they’d sent in the tear gas, the ladderman got Doughty—with a grappling hook, it looked like. Whatever they use on us. I saw the dog’s arched neck rear above the battle-smoke like a Delacroix hor...se; two of the buckling metal staves crossed under it like bayonets. Gravel he was kicking up soared in high arcs and fell, slow as tracer bullets—from old movies. I could hear the dum-dum bullets, softnosed, exploding on impact—that people thought we had outlawed. And this was only one house. When I slouched off, the police were already calling the demolition experts. I could have told them the terrarium wasn’t going to fall any further, of itself. As proved the case. It was to hang there for two months while a wreckage crew with the will and means was sought for—the area-way wasn’t very large.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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