With a cigarette in his mouth and one hand on the wheel he drove north. Cursing the never ending speed limit signs. The lump of discomfort cramping in his stomach would not go away. He took a big sip of the booze he had in a bottle at the passengers seat. As he drank he could see her in the rear view mirror. God, how much he loved her. Sometimes he thought he loved her more than his wife. She looked up at him with her wet pleading eyes. His beloved bitch.
He had her since she was just a little puppy. Trained her to become the best hunting dog he ever had. All his mates envied him for his star. She could track down any game and drive in to shooting distance. Find any bird even if it dropped in the water. She had stamina and could go on for hours even in deep snow. Now she lay there in the backseat of his old Opel convertible. Tongue half way to the floor, watching up in anticipation. She knew that when he took her alone in the car they would go hunting.
He cursed again at a speed limit sign and took another sip from the bottle of booze. Quickly wiped away the beginning of a tear in his eye. He thought of the rifle in the trunk. It was a really good but expensive rifle he bought just before his second son was born. He remembered the cold look he got from his wife that could freeze hell.
He could barely manage the narrow road down to the cabin. There was nothing left in the bottle and the last kilometers he had to use up the entire road. In the backseat the dog was going wild and barking as she recognized dirt road to the cabin. Cabin meant hunting and running free. Not stuck with a leash she had to wear in the city. As soon as he opened the door she rushed out barking, jumping and waiving the tail. When he took the rifle out of the trunk he was crying like a baby.
The dog stood a few meters away and looked at him. Waiting for his command. She was a bit puzzled when he didn’t act like normal. He dried his eyes, lifted the rifle, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
This is based on a true story and is the continuation of the post Bite. Please let me know your thoughts, like and subscribe.
It’s hard to lay your own dog down. I read the “Bitch” story…. I just experienced two times that I had to go to the veterianry to give my dogs a final shot because of health problems.
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This took place in the 60:ties. So going to the vet was only for the rich.
I sort of knew this was coming but was hoping it wouldn’t. There’s a very famous Aussie poem by Phillip Hodgins called ‘Shooting the Dogs’ where this happens.
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