In the beginning, there was no thought of the Levitt's German shepherd Rex in Jan's pretty blonde head as she went grumpily about her early morning housework. She was by far too preoccupied with other things – in particular with the peculiar frustration she was continually feeling with being married.

Not that she hadn't frequently noticed the sleek dog that lived next door. Indeed, she had often puzzled over Rex's peculiar attraction when he was tied up at the local supermarket, for it always seemed as if every housewife in the neighborhood paused in her shopping duties to give him a friendly pat and whisper some friendly words to the long-tongued dog, which was usually sitting obediently on his haunches as he waited for his mistress to finish her shopping.

"Hello, Rex, how's that nice doggy today?" they would ask. Or, "My, that's a sweet little dog, aren't you?" And this puzzled Jan from time to time. After all, it was true that Rex had a sleek, shining coat and that he was the epitome of form in what one thought of as the German shepherd physique, but after all there were usually a half dozen pedigreed dogs parked outside the supermarket, all of them equally handsome in their own way. Yet there was not a one among them that seemed to inspire the response Rex did. He was truly unique in that respect. Women couldn't seem to pass him up.

Yet so far as Jan could tell, there was not anything especially unique about the dog. True, he had a handsome, intelligent face – very masculine, too, of course – but that was scarcely enough to justify such unusual attentions as he invariably commanded.

So this was just a part of Jan's ordinary curiosity with respect to the Levitt's dog. But another part of it was Marge Levitt's seeming preoccupation and possessiveness with respect to Rex.