When Jensen passes the little brown bungalow all the way out on the edge of where the village meets the woods, he may find he's not the only one singing. When he hits a certain note in a certain bar of a certain song, there's a sound like a long, throaty bay that's been sped up to a chipmunk speed. The voice's pitch shifts and twists as if searching, until it hits just the right note to produce that nails-on-a-chalkboard dissonance with Jensen's song.

Inside, there's a thump, a crash, and a grumbled string of profanity.

A small, wrinkly nose presses through the slats of the front porch, tail a-thumping, and lets out another enthusiastic, ear-splitting howl. She looks pretty pleased with her tiny self. It must sound great if you're a dog.