Killing a Dog

The father placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder as they watched the barn, filled with the year’s worth of crops, burn fiercely.  Both had tears in their eyes, maybe from the smoke, maybe from knowing that all the work – the long days in the sun, the prayers for rain, the dirt beneath nails, the sleepless mornings, and restless nights – was all for naught.

The father took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, forming his words with delicate precision, “Son, go to the house, go garner the gun from the mantle. “  The boy stood there, his knees locked, knowing if he took a step he would never make it to the house.  The flames cast a deep shadow upon the boy’s face, but the father could sense the tears on his youthful cheeks. 

“You know there’s no other way.”  The boy slowly nodded.  As if on cue, the dog that had been lost in the darkness and shadows of the fiery night pushed its nose into the hand of the boy’s, reminding the two of its presence and frustrated existence.  The boy’s feet took him no further than a step.

“Pa, I just can’t.”  The dog gave loyal lick to the hand, and the boy returned a tentative pat on its head.  The north wall from the barn finally gave way, and crashed to the ground sending a wave of sparks and embers to the black sky.  The father groaned.

The foxes had been carousing around the barn, trying to get to the hens as they always did.  And night after night the father and the boy would release the dog, in defense and action.  This night was the same, and the dog was successful in chasing out the vermin but in his canine hasty foolishness kicked over a lit lamp, and set the barn aflame.  The father and son ran out when they saw the smoke but it was too late.  The dog trotted over nobly, knowing the foxes had been chased away, but unaware of the woeful fire that he had caused. 

The foxes could have set the fire, but they all knew the cause.  They knew it, because they knew the past.  They remembered how the dog chased out the foxes, but not before their red tails escaped leaving behind three dead hens.  Or how the dog once went after the foxes, only to break through the door, leaving the other barn animals the freedom to roam about the farm.  There were always moments like those.   Some smaller, some bigger but they always created more inconvenience.  Unfortunately for the father, he did not recognize the cost, but tragically believed in the objective purpose of the dog.  He was meant to chase out the foxes, and well, he did that, even despite certain collateral damage.   The father had an opportunity, a wasted one.  Last time, the dog had cornered a fox and managed to kill it, but not before a bloody battle ensued, leaving the dog worse for the wear.  The father considered putting the dog down, as the costs of recovery would be high, and in the end a dog was just a dog.  But the father refrained because of the boy, and because he too had a certain affinity for the poor mutt.  

And now his barn was on fire.

The boy looked to his father, and began to make his interceding plea.  “But pa, we can’t do this to him.  He’s a good dog.  He’s got some problems, but he tries his best.  He really does.  And look at the dogs we had before him.  They weren’t no good.  Not damn good at all.  Remember the one that peed all over the house, or the one that would always run away, or remember the one that would chew up everything, or how bout the one that even began killin the hens?  This dog ain’t as bad as all those others we had before him. “

The father looked down sadly at his son.  “Yeah we did have some bad ones.  But ‘fore your time we had a couple great dogs.  Best dogs I’ve ever had.  And look at our neighbors, the Fletchers or the Bradleys.  They got themselves darn good dogs.  Some of the best dogs in the county.  That could be us.  Now look, I know you got yourself a fond attachment to this one, but we can get a new one, train it up real good, and we won’t…”  The father and son looked to see the final wall of the barn fall into the smolder.  “We won’t have this.”  The boy nodded, resignedly and trudged his way to the house. 

The boy walked out with the gun, his shoulders sagging under the weight, and also his mission.  He walked to the dog, who looked at him with his simple, ignorant puppy eyes.  The father stood back somberly.  The boy drew a deep breath of confidence, stood straight, and aimed the gun. “Sorry Tony, you been a good dog. “  The boy pulled the trigger. 

AND THIS IS WHY THE DALLAS COWBOYS NEED TO GET RID OF TONY ROMO.