The Bear and Barnacle

Holmes sat back in a booth and lit his pipe. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he spoke softly as he watched smoke idly curl from the bowl. "I have known men who did monstrous things," he began, "Milverton, Moriarty, Moran, and I suppose that makes them monsters. And there was one, a truly terrible individual, that I knew of but never had the fortune to meet. But I did encounter one monster, a real one, though he was not a monster in and of himself, but the product of a mad schemer. A product of his upbringing and an example of what maltreatment leads to." He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment. "It was in Dartmoor, a dismal place, perfect for curses and monsters both, though in this instance they were both perpetuated by nothing more than human greed." Holmes took a deep breath. "Actually, the monster was a dog, an enormous thing, about the size of a lioness, a cross between a mastiff and a bloodhound. Daubed with a bit of phosphorus in order to achieve a spectral glow and you have a ready-made demon. A dog kept half-starved and savage. He caused the deaths of two men and nearly that of another, and I’m afraid he killed a small spaniel as well. Killed and ate it. I was quite fortunate that Watson and I were able to put and end to both the dog’s reign of terror and the evil creature that had made him."