When Roger was walking down Ventura Boulevard on the way to get a latte he saw a man walking a spotted white and black pitbull. Can I pet your dog? he asked. No you shouldn’t said the man. But Roger could not resist. “I’ll give him a piece of snickers bar I have in my pocket!” said Roger. He reached down to pet the dog and it sunk its teeth into his hand and would not release.
A big commotion in the street. The man, whose name was Jessie kept telling everybody who would listen — i told him not to and this asshole just reaches out and tries to pet my Wally — and he would act it out. The police got there and shot the dog. It’s jaws did not let go.
Roger had to go downtown to an office in the animal department where they had a special saw. The sawed off the animal’s head. It would not let go still. Roger got a ticket and was sent to yet another office, halfway across town where in the basement he was seen by a Dr. Marengo. Dr. Marengo put bandages under the dog head to protect Roger’s skin and sunk the whole set-up in baths of progressively stronger acid. The flesh and skin of the dog head came off until all that was left was the bones. He crushed the skull with a hammer and now all that was left was the maxilla and mandible and teeth stuck fast in his flesh. By this time Roger had gotten to know Dr. Marengo pretty well and didn’t feel so awkward when he took off his shirt — he was sweating vigorously, planted one foot against Roger’s thigh, used a special tool that he had brought with him from the old country (somewhere in West Asia, Roger thought…Armenia) a pair of special brass pliers, grabbed the dog’s mandibles and with a pop got them out.
Roger went home. His girlfriend found his manner “weird”. He slept on the couch. In his dream the dog jaws were still in his hand.
The next morning he called Marengo. “The dog is still biting me in my dream.” “Sure that happens.” said Marengo and gave him the address of a witch in Little Armenia. “You’re going to have to pay for that. Animal Control doesn’t handle the supernatural — it’s just not — it’s not how they do it in America.” “That’s fine.” said Roger.
He went to the witch whose name was Lucia. She looked at his cards. She looked at his coffee grounds. It turns out the dog had been a rakshasa. A long time ago — maybe like the fifteenth century — she had been a princess who always got to have sex with the prisoners the night before they were beheaded. And this was fair because this is the best sex to be had and it was her prerogative as a princess. But then she became addicted to this kind of love-making so that the caresses of non-condemned men felt bland to her. And she started paying the judges to condemn men to death so she could enjoy them. And when she died Jesus Christ condemned her to be reborn as a dog and to be killed for every man she had thus ill-used. And that is why when the dog saw you you felt compelled to pet him. Because she was using her witchcraft to beguile you.
But what is to be done? asked Roger.
They went to the graveyard and summoned the spirit of the demon dog who was the rakshasa who was the princess and put it into an egg. Roger served the egg the next morning to his girlfriend, fried, on a piece of toast. As soon as she swallowed she stopped short, shivered, and gave him a piercing look. She was an evil devil princess now, head to toe.