Winter Moon

stepped onto the landing. Falstaff hesitated, looked toward the half-open hall door as if maybe he would bolt from the bedroom…
        You're the one was so interested," Toby reminded him. "Now come on, I'll show you-just stairs." As if he had been shamed into it, the dog joined Toby on the landing. His tail was held so low that the end of.it curled around one of his hind legs. Toby descended three steps, wincing as the first one squeaked and then the third. If Mom or Dad was in the kitchen below, he might get caught, and then they'd think he was sneaking out to grab up some snow-in his bare feet!-to bring it back to his room to watch it melt. Which wasn't a bad idea, actually.
        He wondered whether snow was interesting to eat. Three steps, two squeaks, and he stopped, looked back at the dog. "Well?" Reluctantly, Falstaff moved to his side. crural. Trying to make as little noise as possible. Well, one of them was trying, anyway, staying close to the wall, where the treads weren't as likely to creak, but the other.. one had claws that ticked and scraped on the wood. Toby whispered,
        "Stairs.
        Steps. See? You can go down. You can go up. Big deal. What'd you think was behind the door, huh? Doggie hell?" Each step they descended brought one new step into view. The way the walls curved, you couldn't see far ahead, couldn't see the bottom, just a few steps with the paint worn thin, lots of shadows because of the dim bulbs, so maybe the lower landing was just two steps below or maybe it was a hundred, five hundred, or - maybe you went down and down and around and around for ninety thousand steps, and when you reached the bottom you were at the center of the earth with dinosaurs and lost cities. "In doggie hell," he told Falstaff, "the devil's a cat. You know that?
        Big cat, really big, stands on his hind feet, has claws like razors …" Down and around, slow step by slow step. "… this big devil cat, he wears a cape made out of dog fur, necklace out of dog teeth.
        .." Down and around. "… and when he plays marbles…" Wood creaking underfoot. "… he uses dogs' eyes! Yeah, that's right …"
        Falstaff whimpered. "… he's one mean cat, big mean cat, mean as shit." They reached the bottom. The vestibule. The two doors.
        "Kitchen," Toby whispered, indicating one door. He turned to the other. "Back porch." He could probably twist open the deadbolt, slip onto the porch, scoop up a double handful of snow, even if he had to go as far as the yard to get it, but still make it back inside and all the way up to his room without his mom or dad ever knowing about it.
        Make a real snowball, his first. Take a taste of it. When it started to melt, he could just put it in a corner of his room, and in the morning, there'd be no evidence. Just water. Which, if anyone noticed it, he could blame on Falstaff.
        Toby reached for the doorknob with his right hand and for the dead-bolt turn with his left. The retriever jumped up, planted both paws on the wall beside the door, and clamped his jaws around Toby's left wrist.
        Toby stifled a squeal of surprise. -Falstaff held the wrist firmly, but he didn't bite down, didn't really hurt, just held on and rolled.his eyes at Toby, as if what he would have said, if he could speak, was something like, No, you can't open this door, it's nuts, forget it, no way. "What're you doing?" Toby whispered. "Let go." Falstaff would not let go. "You're drooling on me," Toby said as a rivulet of thick saliva trickled down his wrist and under the sleeve of his pajama tops.
        The retriever worked his teeth slightly, still not hurting his master but making it clear that he could cause a little pain anytime he wanted. "What, is Mom paying you?" Toby let go of the doorknob with his right hand. The dog rolled his eyes, relaxed his jaws, but didn't entirely let go of the left wrist until Toby released the thumb-turn on the lock and lowered his hand to his side. Falstaff dropped away from the wall, onto all fours again.
        Toby stared at the door, wondering if he would be able to move quickly enough to open it before the dog could leap up and seize his wrist again. The retriever watched him closely. Then he wondered why Falstaff didn't want him to go outside. Dogs could sense danger.
        Maybe a bear was prowling around outside, one of the bears that Dad said lived in the woods. A bear could gut you and bite your head off so quick you