Just a mutt. He’s just a no-good mutt.
At least, that’s what the boy kept telling himself, saying it over and over in his head as if the more he said it, the truer it would become, as if it meant something.
Part Border collie, part German shepherd. In happier days, the boy would have gladly thrown some wolf into the mix. Even on this day, the thought distracted him enough to bring a brief smile.
Just a stupid mutt.
“You’ve got to take care of that damn dog of yours,” Cunningham had said, waving the bloody remains of what might have, only hours ago, been a fat hen, the yellow feathers speckled with dirt and blood.
“Stupid dog,” the boy accented his words with a swift but ill-aimed kick. “Just a mutt” merely turned his ugly face to the boy and wagged his tail.
The boy stomped on, his feet making a soft thudding noise on the wet dead leaves. His feet were cold and his toes numb from the wetness that had soaked through, but he wasn’t aware of it. His mind was on the dog, the stupid dog, the “just a mutt” that trotted beside him.
His arms were tired and shaking by the time they reached the middle of the woods, and he had to set the rifle against a tree to let his muscles rest. He rubbed his arms, but not because of the cold and damp.
“Stupid dog!” This time, his foot landed solidly in the ugly mutt’s rib cage. It yelped but didn’t run.
It didn’t wag its tail this time.
“Come here,” the boy knelt. A tightness suddenly gripped his throat and his gut. He would have yelled at the dog again, but his muscles wouldn’t unclench. His hands reached violently for the mutt and sunk into the fur.
On other days, the hands would have been playful, but not today.
The boy had tied this same rope to the collar a thousand times before. It wasn’t difficult; it was only a square knot. It’s just that his fingers didn’t seem to want to move correctly. And his vision wasn’t helping things, either.
“Dumb dog,” he grunted. Just a no-good mutt. But he didn’t believe it.
He tied it tight and backed off. “Dumb dog” tried to follow but couldn’t. He whined, and the boy scowled again.
It was harder to aim than he had remembered. The boy had been hunting with his father only three days ago, and he knew how to hold a rifle, knew how to aim, but the sight kept going out of focus and the rifle wouldn’t stop shaking.
The final squeeze of his finger surprised the boy, but not as much as the sudden silence that echoed in his ears. His arms felt like lead. The rifle fell, but he didn’t notice.
Just a mutt. Just a no-good mutt, anyhow.
His eyes stung. The boy grunted, picked up the rifle, and walked home alone.
