To a dog of the deep south

I’m sorry I was cruel to you. Perhaps wasn’t, but that’s how I remember it. You were tiny and sensitive and so eager to please, and we had our share of running and playing, but a mean streak in me made me sometimes shout at you, bully you. You would cowl and try to make yourself small, but that didn’t stop me. I shouted more. I was frustrated and unhappy and you were small and couldn’t fight back, and you liked my father more than you like me, and I hated that, and I hated him, and so I hurt you with my shouting and my abuse. I’m sorry I encouraged my father to have you put to sleep. You had been sick for so long and seemed in so much pain. You tried so hard to do the things that you knew pleased us. On some days you could run a few steps and even chase a ball, and bark, but on other days a few steps and you’d fall down, kicking, unable to stand up. Your breath and your lick were fowl and nauseating, and you were eaten up with something, maybe cancer, and for days you wouldn’t get up. I really thought at the time that having you put to sleep was the best thing. My father couldn’t make the decision so I helped make it for him. You woke up the morning of the day we killed you, and we knew it was your last morning. You didn’t know that. You couldn’t know that. I’m sorry we did that to you. I’ve never shed a tear, and suggesting that we put you to sleep was, in a way, getting back at my father. You were a great dog, and a kind creature, and I was bad to you. I was mean to you.