wanderingsoul
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The Damned Stuipd Dog - Monday, January 24, 2005
You know, I’ve never intentionally taken a life—other than the occasional insect. Until today.
I’ve spent the past *thinks* 8 years plotting his death. Sometimes I would think poison…yes, he would eat anything. Would be a simple matter to poison him. Something nice and untraceable—perhaps spoiled chicken… Sometimes I would think accident… yes, easy enough to make things look like an accident. Ooops…was that you I ran over? Sometimes I would think violence…yes, would give me great satisfaction to put the barrel of the 22 to his forehead and pull the trigger. But he had a cast iron stomach. And despite several accidents, he always recovered. And…well, as much as I hated him, I couldn’t really pull the trigger.
Except I did today. Sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. So I loaded the 22 and walked out the door. I put the gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Doesn’t leave much of a wound really, a 22. I don’t think anyone even heard the shot. Not with all the snowblowers blowing.
I’d known him for 11 ½ years. Knew him when he was young and stupid. Knew him when he was old and stupid. He was always stupid. Wouldn’t walk in water. Would walk far out of his way rather than step in water. And you could call his name all you wanted and he wouldn’t even turn his head. Probably didn’t know his name. He was always stupid.
Stupid dog. The dog with more lives than a cat. Barked non-stop from the moment we moved to the city until the moment I crawled under the back porch and shot him. He had been howling all night—which wasn’t anything really different. But it had sounded wrong to me. So I went looking for him. When I found him, he couldn’t stand up—kept falling over, and his eyes were rolling around. I could tell he didn’t really see me. But he kept howling like he was in agony.
So I went and got the 22, loaded it and walked out the back door and crawled back under the porch and put the barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Harsh reality is that dead is dead whether it is by a shot from a needle or from a gun. And when my mom had her dog put down it cost her almost $100. And I don’t have that much left after taking Babes to the vet Friday. And I don’t get paid until Thursday. So it was either let him suffer until Thursday, at which time he would be given a humanely lethal injection—or end his pain and suffering today.
Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
Except I have never killed anything intentionally before—except for the occasional bug. If any animal ever had to be put down, Mark—good old farm boy that he was—would do it. Or I would take them to the vet. Of course, my mom pointed out that discharging a weapon within the city limits is a crime. It is. You will be arrested if you are caught. But I wasn’t. And now the poor dog has to stay under the porch until spring. I wrapped him up in a towel and a plastic bag. I didn’t tell Sam. Told him I was going down in the basement to shoot a rat—when he asked why I had the gun. *laughs* I am surprised he bought that one. He should know that I would actually capture the damned rat in a garbage can and get in my car and drive to the hollow and let it out. But he bought it. But it is ironic timing, as usual—Sam had been in his room watching TV ALL DAY, except when I went into my bedroom to get the gun—he pops out just then. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to know Chop was dead—he will know that tomorrow. I just didn’t want him picturing the dog being shot. I will tell him tomorrow that I came home from taking him to school and found him dead.
The thing is, Chopper was Mark’s dog. I bought him for him as a birthday present. Chop was just a puppy. Mark always loved dogs and wanted a beagle he could train to hunt. Of course, he only succeeded in training him to run through the woods sniffing and barking—and avoiding water. Mark would wade through a stream and Chop would disappear—and 5 minutes later he would show up behind Mark with dry feet. He would follow the stream until he found a place he could cross without getting his feet wet.
You know, I have actively hated that dog since we moved here. Barked and howled every night and every day. But it is very quiet here now. Much too quiet. Never really thought I would miss that stupid dog.
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/4/2005, 3:04 am
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