Somewhere a dog barked.

The burglar froze in his tracks.

Suddenly a shot rang out.

A jagged bolt of lightning popped like a flashbulb and wicked thunder crashed.

Now another dog joined the cacophony and yet another until it seemed that every dog in the neighborhood had become a contributor to the din.

An engine came to life. A car sped away under the sudden glare of a dozen porch lights.

The burglar leaked blood onto the white deep pile shag carpet on which he staggered as he made his way to the top of the stairs. Pain surged through him. He felt faint.

A second stroke of lightning flashed the sky, backlighting the windows at the front of the house. Thunder bumped and shook the dwelling, muffling the sound of the burglar tumbling down the stairs.

Five car alarms went off all at the same time, shaken by the thunder and the dogs howled in 15 part harmony, as the burglar staggered into the yard and collapsed, face up to the sky.

Then it started to rain.

“Damn,” the burglar thought. “Just damn.”