Cujo got back up. His muzzle was bloody. His eyes seemed wandering, vacuous again. Inside the house the phone rang on and on. The dog made as if to walk away, suddenly snapped viciously at its own flank as if stung, whirled, and sprang at Donna's window. It struck right in front of Donna's face with another tremendous dull thud. Blood sprayed across the glass, and a long silver crack appeared. Tad shrieked and clapped his hands to his face, pulling his cheeks down, harrowing them with his fingernails.
Cujo: nature versus man at its finest. One of King's shorter novels, Cujo is a story about a massive Saint Bernard who gets rabies and ends up going on a killing spree. The above passage is part of the larger narrative: Donna and her young son Tad have gone to get their car fixed at the house where the dog lives, but the owners aren't there. Half of the novel focuses on Donna and Tad surviving the ordeal: rabid angry Cujo just won't give up. He can't get in the car, they can't get out of it - oh, and it's at least 100 degrees inside the vehicle. The story is scary more because of the fact that it seems inevitable that Cujo is going to kill both the characters (we won't tell you who, but only one survives...).
I love Stephen King and music festivals; I eat my toast upside down; I daydream about getting married probably a bit too much; and I wish every day for a pet sausage dog puppy (who never materialises – sob).
