Winslow Sneed. Beaky gargoyle of a man, hoists himself out of bed. One room shotgun shack. Old iron fry pan. Two pairs of pants. Watery blue eyes.
That dog’s back. Bad enough when the scab-shot flea-ridden cur haunted his back porch, tipped the garbage. Now it’s on Winslow’s sofa, reading. Reading? Reading what? Reading Kirkegaard’s “The Sickness Unto Death.”
Goddam dog. What the hell you readin’ that for?
The dog looks at Winslow over tiny half-moon spectacles. “How close men, for all their knowledge, live to madness, Winslow,” he says gravely.