Austen vs. King's Cujo

The King original:
Cujo's head had come up.  His head cocked to one side, and for a moment he bore an insane resemblance to Nipper, the RCA dog with his ear to the gramophone horn.  He got shakily to his feet and started toward the house and the sound of the ringing telephone.

"Maybe the doggy's going to answer the telephone," Tad said.  "Maybe-"

With a speed and agility that was terrifying, the big dog changed direction and came at the car.  The awkward stagger was gone now, as if it had been nothing but a sly act all along.  It was roaring and bellowing rather than barking.  Its red eyes burned.  It struck the car with a hard, dull crunch and rebounded - with stunned eyes, Donna saw that the side of her door was actually bowed in a bit.  It must be dead, she thought hysterically, bashed its sick brains in spinal fusion deep concussion must have-must have-MUST HAVE-


Cujo got back up.  His muzzle was bloody.  His eyes seemed wandering, vacuous again.  Inside the house the phone rang on and on.
Stephen King, Cujo, Futura, 1989,  p235-236.

After 10 minutes in the Austen Oven:
Donna watched the dog.  His head had risen from groggy sleep, and now it was cocked to the side; it looked as though he was listening to a sound no-one else could discern, but somehow Donna could see the noise the dog heard was one that jarred and bothered him intensely.  Cujo rose to his feet uncertainly and headed towards the house.

"Perhaps the doggie needs a drink," said Tad hopefully.  "Perhaps someone is calling him."

Then the dog turned, and ran at them, tumbling and fierce, with no stagger or uncertainty, as if he had been playing a trick on them, and now he was slyly triumphant, eager to show them how wrong they had been.  Cujo did not bark, but growled as he ran; the growl became a vicious roar, and his eyes narrowed into pockets of red as he neared.  Donna and Tad crawled further up into the shrubbery; the sharp twigs snatched at their clothes as they sought to climb out of the dog's reach.  Cujo crashed into the tree below; he had not slowed, so he hit hard, and fell back, looking up at them in what seemed angered frustration, as they clutched the branches in horror.  Cujo walked in a circle, shaking his muzzle, so that ribbons of saliva and blood flew everywhere, spattering the leaves; then suddenly he turned, and ran at the tree again, and again, as they shrieked and moaned.  Why did not anybody hear their cries?
Ophelia, 2012, all rights reserved.

Trust: the faithful dog guards his little mistress till she wakes