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.
