Arguing about the last leg

From the inside of the cabin I could hear him getting angry. Swearing, banging the walls. But now the leg was mine.

Bad dog

 

We drove into the woods. We had arranged a meeting with an elderly couple, living on a buffalo farm.

They had several hash brown dogs that obviously weren't used to strangers. In the barking and general commotion it broke out a fight between two of them.

The biggest dog had the smallest by the throat, shaking it like a rat. It wouldn't let go even though I pulled by the hind legs. The owners decided that this was it and went for the gun. 

We drove off with the bad dog chasing. The couple talked each other up to go through with the plan, even though the whole thing seemed more on the spur of the moment. I kept looking out the rear window. It was kind of strange to see a dog running to its own execution, but the dog was mean and I guess he had it coming. 

The couple disagreed about where to do it. Finally he just stopped the car, rolled down the window and grabbed the rifle. She suggested that he better step out. Shooting from inside the car would surely burst our eardrums.

I couldn't really see anything from where I was sitting. The rifle sounded flat and sharp. He came back and we took off. He was still agitated, red-faced. After a while she said it was stupid to leave the dog where we left it. Sooner or later some hunters would pass by, and wonder.

 

We took the dog by the legs and started swinging. We threw it down a slope on the count of three, leaving a trail of blood in the snow.

Back in the cabin they kept talking about the dog. I guess they needed to justify the killing. We where standing on the newly painted floor when I noticed a speck of blood between us. It was kind of strange because it wasn't smeared out by the shoes. We started to look up towards the ceiling. Did it drop from somewhere? We never found out.