I've had the black dog on my heels all day. I saw him this morning, peering at me through the slats in the fence. Casually, arrogantly, the black dog walks through the gate (I swore I closed it tight), and sits at my door. Panting. Waiting. He is patience. He is the Sword of Damocles. He is my fourth horseman.

I am conviced the dog smiles at my foolishness when I peer through my curtains at him. His smile is all-knowing, all seeing. Do dogs laugh? I'm sure this one laughs at me. I can feel him, just as he feels me.

I can't seem to shake him. At the moment I feel an odd symbiosis with the dog. He is as much a part of me as my liver, my heart beats in time with his. His pulse quickens when he catches sight of me, and my own responds. As much as I loathe the black dog, he is my dog.

Every time I turn around, he is there waiting for me. I can see the saliva running from his jowls, I can see his sides heave as he breathes, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, I can smell the foulness he tries to breathe into me.

He is succeeding. I am breathing him in. I don't like it, but I don't have the strength to fight him today. I don't know how to placate him today. I know full well what he wants - the dog and I have danced this dance before.

It's an offensive tango - we dance closely - too closely for my liking, but not close enough for his. I feel him pulling me closer, and as much as I don't want to, I dance the dance with the black dog. I bare my neck to the black dog.

He hasn't bitten yet - but he has grazed me with his teeth. I know that he may bite any time he wishes, and I would be powerless to stop him. In fact, I am concerned that I would offer up my hand willingly to him, letting him bite, allowing him to feed.

I so want this to pass. My concern is that my black dog will take me with him this time. This time, he may do more than simply nuzzle my hand playfully as he did so many years ago.

Last time, I gave my hand willingly. I was prepared for the black dog to bite, and he chose not to. I was ready for the black dog to bite, and I willingly bared my throat for him to pounce.

Willingly or not, my throat is bared to the black dog tonight. He is off his leash, howling at the moon. His blood is up. He smells the fear, and it thrills him.

The chase has begun. Tonight, when the moon hides and there is nothing to show either his face or mine, the dog will decide.

Does he bite his mistress, or leave her to battle another night - knowing full well that his is the upper hand? Either way, victory is his tonight. I am at the will, the whim, (and should he have any) the mercy, of the black dog.