The strangest detail in the tenth plague is not what happens, but what does not. On the night when all of Mizraim wails, no dog in Israel so much as growls. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Exodus 11:7 renders the verse with striking precision: not a dog shall harm any of Israel by lifting up its tongue, not against a man and not against a beast.
In the ancient world, dogs were not companions. They were scavengers, guardians of Egyptian temples, eaters of refuse in the street. A dog's silence was unnatural. And so the Targum reads the still muzzles as a theological statement: the Lord draws a distinction between the Mizraee and the sons of Israel, and even the street animals observe it.
The Hebrew root for "sharpen" (charatz) is the same word used in the original verse (Exodus 11:7). The dogs will not "sharpen" their tongues. Silence becomes a kind of sharpness inverted — a muted edge. On a night when every Egyptian household is howling, the houses of Israel are so quiet that even the animals outside have hushed.
This is divine justice operating at the smallest scale. It is not enough that the firstborn of Egypt die while the firstborn of Israel live. The very soundscape of the night is divided. Egyptians hear their own grief. Israelites hear nothing at all.
Takeaway: God's deliverance reaches down to the level of barking dogs. When He draws a line, it goes all the way down.