On the longest day of the year I got up, made coffee, and shot the dog.
The night before, I went to bed planning to make coffee as I do every morning. I did not expect to shoot a dog. What I did expect, since it is my routine, was to fill bins with food for the chickens and break a bail of hay and some grain for Horace, the chestnut horse. Duties finished, I usually hurried back to the kitchen to feed Sarah, the Labrador Retriever, and myself. Sarah is a great help, always close by while I do my chores.
It is fortunate that I went off my plan, pausing to water the heat-stressed tomato plants located near the back porch, before going to the barn. Otherwise the next few minutes would have been far worse. But I jump ahead. The first thing I did on that long hot day was make coffee. Sarah watched patiently while I had my cup of extra strong, gained by removing the pot and inserting my cup under the drip. Outside, while I watered the tomatoes, tall and heavy with green fruit, Sarah spread her water by an azalea bush and then over the extended roots of a sheltering dogwood tree.
“You look like a statue,” said my wife, Jane, from behind me on the porch.
“A statue?”
“In profile. Like that little boy peeing on the lily pad. Only you’re using a bigger hose.”
Just then we heard the commotion. The chickens were making a racket, with Horace chiming in. Chickens are easily disturbed, but the horse was hard to rile. His loud, urgent neighing scared me.
“It’s that fox,” I said, mostly to reassure Jane. I did not think a fox would upset Horace. Maybe a snake, I thought, or even a prowler.
“Don’t kill it, Charlie,” she begged.
“Birdshot,” I said, “hand me the shotgun.”
She disappeared and quickly returned with my little .410 and a couple of shells. I took the gun and jogged toward the barn. Sarah ran ahead. Halfway there I saw him – a full grown German Shepherd rolling in the grass – not after the chickens, but after some kind of comfort. Then he was up, and running towards us. He ran straight for a few moments, suddenly sideways for a few steps, and then fell down. He quickly struggled back to his feet. A trail of spit flew from his big foaming mouth.
“No!” I screamed, as Sarah, head level, tail down, probably thinking to protect me, ran hard for the rabid beast. It was too late to shoot without hitting Sarah, and anyway I was too far from the intruder for the birdshot to have much effect. Running hard towards the shepherd I closed the distance and almost had an angle from which to shoot when he lunged for Sarah. She veered, bounced off the other dog, rolling over from the blow. Still very much in harm’s way, she scrambled to her feet, moving towards the rabid dog, still determined to protect me. Please don’t let him bite her, kept running through my head. I was now only twenty feet from the animal, looking for my best shot. Recovering his balance the shepherd turned from Sarah and spotted me. He lurched my way, his eyes smoldering charcoal. An arm’s length away, my shot caught him full in the face. Tumbling over and over, kicking and crying, he spread foam and blood over the thick grass. It was only after cocking the other barrel, gasping for breath, and finishing the job at close range that I felt sick and weak. I remember thinking how god-awful hot the sun was just before I threw up.
Jane had stopped screaming. She was kneeling, holding Sarah, her tears washing both their faces. I knelt and cried with her. We kept Sarah from sniffing the dead dog, all splattered with blood and foam. The sooner we could get him buried the better. He didn’t ask to be that way, to be sick, to be rabid. No more suffering old dog; be with God.
I wished it was night and we could huddle in bed. Just me with Jane and Sarah in the dark until this day was over and a new season began. But the shortest night of the year did not come for a very long time.
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