L'usure d'une force de la nature

These last days I've been caught between a howling dog and a crazy screaming pussy, I'm beginning to feel like some character in a Poe and/or de Maupassant short-story, except this doesn't end, they took the pussy away but the hellish bitch of a dog keeps on calling that woman who left it there alone this morning and the one before and the one before that, every three minutes like clockwork you hear this winter wind high-pitching through the closed windows and you wake up in a sweat, except the windows are wide open, there's no wind, no winter, it's a sweet september, it's going to be gone before we know it, and that grotesque nevrotic beast that can't live with itself a few hours a day without crying those disgusting sounds of degenerate despair so someone somewhere will come and pet it, oh God I fear that kind, they're are more and more everywhere, dogs thinking they're cats and girls thinking they're Hemingway and failed middle-aged men suddenly remembering they were raped in the shed the day Bobby Kennedy was shot, all those endless legions of lost creatures joining the parade of victims, chanting together, feeling stronger, this is all too much for me to comprehend, I only know those zombies will win in the end, there won't be one single Howard Roark-like character left standing anywhere, male or female, human or canine. I haven't thrown up in twenty years but I'd give anything for a bitter and brutal barf right now. I seem to remember I felt better afterwards.

There's some guy using an electric saw out there, not a pleasing sound at all usually, but the stinking dog still manages to screech worst. Either kill it or kill me, please.