Page 41 - WTP Vol. IX #8

with the gunshot’s commotion and loss of their leader. With the pack broken, we might be able to whistle in Waldo once we got out of the woods.
“Let’s go, Pete. We need to finish it.”
I turned towards the direction Waldo had been go- ing. Pete continued to sniff as he dried his eyes with the backs of his gloved hands and fell into pace be- side me. We hiked in silence for several minutes.
“Don’t tell Pa,” Pete finally said. “He’d be pissed if he knew I kilt that mutt. He don’t give a shit about that dog, but shootin, like I did, was reckless.”
“What’s it worth to ya?” I said.
Pete’s eyes went wide, and I lightly punched him in the arm. “Don’t worry, I aint gonna say shit to Pa about it. Besides, I reckon that dog caused this mess and had it coming.”
Pete gave me a sideways look, smiled a little, and continued to walk with me towards the clearing. When we came out of the woods, we were less than a hundred yards to the back of our house. The sun was full up now, and the day had warmed slightly. I had hoped that Waldo would make his way back to his doghouse once he finished running, and I could see my hopes had legs. It looked like Waldo was strolling around his doghouse, waiting to eat. In contrast with the frosted ground, the warm air caused shimmery heat waves, but I was pretty sure that it was no ap- parition and that it was actually Waldo.
“Look, Pete. He made it back.”
Pete’s face brightened as he saw the hound. “Maybe we can splain to Pa bout the other dogs!” he said as the wheels started turning in his head. “Waldo weren’t the cause of this; it was those damn strays! Once Pa hears the truth, maybe he’ll change his mind.” Waldo had spied us and scrambled up on top of his doghouse. He began howling, tail wagging, as he waited.
Just then, I heard the double slam of our screen door at the front of the house, and dread tickled the back
of my neck. We picked up the pace as we continued towards Waldo. We were still twenty yards away when Pa stepped around the corner of the house and into the backyard. The world slowed as Pete raised his free hand over his head and started waving, scream- ing, and running forward to try to stop him. Pa didn’t hear, or likely, didn’t care as he raised his shotgun and blasted Waldo from the top of his doghouse.
Waldo let out a sharp yelp, hit the ground, and lay still, whimpering softly. Pete and I skidded to a stop
by his side and knelt. Pete touched the hound’s head as Waldo rolled his eyes back and forth between the two of us. He couldn’t help but wag his tail, which caused little whines each time he swung it. His suffer- ing was almost unbearable.
“Why?” Pete sobbed as Pa walked up beside us.
“I told you to take care of that damn dog, you chicken- shit! You wanted me to look like a fool!” Spittle left Pa’s mouth as he continued to holler. “I’ll be damned if I let my son and a mangy mutt make a fool out of me!”
Pa’s nose was red, and his eyes were glossy. There would be no arguing or explaining today, or any other day. History had taught us that to do so would prove pointless.
“No need to let him suffer, Pete, put him out of his misery and throw him in a hole.” With that, Pa walked back to the house.
Pete looked at his gun as if it were pure evil. He started to sob as he chambered a fresh shell. Low- ering the gun’s muzzle towards Waldo’s head, he began to cry harder and shake all over. The gun was waving uncontrollably, and Pete was weeping so loud I was afraid Pa would come back out. Pete pulled the gun away from Waldo’s head and, eyes down, said, “I can’t do...”
“Boom!”
My gunshot put an end to his sentence, his task, and
Waldo’s misery.
Leadingham writes from an isolated cabin on his farm in Kentucky. He focuses mainly on short stories reflecting on themes related to rural life in a different time.He lives on his farm with his wife, five daughters, a Shih Tzu dog named Toby, and one black cat named Boo.
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