Squinting in the sun, still eyeing where the Alpha had fallen, Gerty was thankful for nature. Like some pathetic cop-out, she hoped it’s help would alleviate her conscience a bit. All she had to do was kill the healthiest, the most powerful in the packs. And the other predators in the area would rapidly capitalize on these actions and complete her job.
Finished with her canteen and handkerchief, Gerty places them inside her pack. Zipping the pocket closed. She wraps her arms through the straps and stands in one fluid motion. Setting her cap on her head, she then bends over and picks up her rifle from where it was resting on the ground. Carrying it against her shoulder, her dry, chalky hike down the butte begins.
Walking through brush, carefully stepping to disturb as little as possible, she subconsciously takes in the desert. The smell of dry rotting wood, as it lies fallen baking in the sun. Insects buzzing through the air searching for water. Ground Chucks running rapidly from cover to cover, their little limbs flailing against the soil on which they move.
She finally starts to glimpse the body of the one she shot. From this distance, she can see that it was once a beautiful male. As she gets closer, more details start to emerge. A bit of the left ear is missing from an obvious scrap. Sap and grime cling in clumps to the fur. An open wound, glistening in his chest, where her bullet had struck clean. Blood slowly seeping from the body and into the sand beneath, which is always thirsty for moisture.
Kneeling down next to the animal, Gerty sizes it up. Guessing that it is somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety pounds. No fat, pure muscle. Awestruck, she begins to run her hands over the coat. Golds, browns, and blacks cover most of the body. As her hands explore, she feels the tendons beneath, growing tight from rigor. On to the muzzle, her fingers lift lips that reveal sizable teeth. The damage resulting from a bite would be painfully destructive. Using the canines to gauge his age, she figures that he is about 4-5 years old.
It is then, that she spies the hair around the scruff. It is matted and thickened in a way that demands to be reviewed. Running her fingers along the neck, she feels some form of weaving underneath. With noticeable alarm, she stumbles upon a small lump and her mouth starts to dry. Pulling out her knife, Gerty trims away the tangled excess. After a time, when most of the hair around the area is cut short, she finds what is entwined beneath. A collar and tag wrapped around the dead animals neck. Hesitantly, Gerty flips the metal over between thumb and index finger. “Buddy” could be plainly seen engraved on the tag, which held the shape of a bone. Inscribed directly beneath the name, was the address and phone number of the owner who had left him. As if burned, Gerty stumbles back. Truth acting as heat in it’s severity.
One time when she was young, Gerty had been walking in the forest with her Great-Grandmother and their German Shephard “Belle”. An hour into their walk, a black bear had stumbled out onto the trail. Belle had moved to place herself between the bear and those she loved, while a low guttural growl rose in the hollows of her throat. The hair on the dog’s back could be seen as evidence, standing on end, proving her discontent. Sniffing for a moment, the black bear’s head bobbed and weaved. And then, with no explanation, turned and left. Once the bear was out of sight, Gerty turned to her Great-Grandmother and with fear still resident in her voice asked.
“What would we have done? If the bear had attacked?”
And her Great-Grandmother, a woman who had lived through a depression, looked down at her and said “We would have run. People are more important than animals, even dogs. Don’t you ever forget that.” And remembering this, Gerty continued to stare dumbfounded at the body before her.
For almost two weeks, she had been hunting them. On plain, on butte, and on hill. Spending her day with justification as her guide. As she tried to picture these dogs as wild beasts. Ones with no home, that were cared for by no one. But here, before her, she was confronted with obvious history. This kill had been fundamentally the same as the others, but yet it’s difference felt unequivocal. And there was no escaping her thoughts, forming in their speculation.
Buddy probably slept on the children’s bed. He barked to guard the family he loved. Without being asked, he would die for the family he loved. But as times grew tougher, his unconditional love was not enough. The family no longer had the money to afford the comforts of their lifestyle and still provide for their trusty companion. So they loaded him up, drove out into the desert, and threw his ball as far as they could. And while he obeyed, they left. Not looking back. Buddy would return to the spot of the throw, faithfully, ball in mouth.Waiting long, he would whine and pine. Trying and failing to understand the betrayal. Only the eventual instinct to go and quiet his increasing hunger. And as more of his four-legged companions were brought and discarded, their appetite would grow too. Abandoning Gerty, to the job of cleaning up the disowned.
Returning her knife to her pocket, she set down her backpack and rifle. Then grabbed the camping shovel strung to the pack’s side. With great heaves she began to dig up the hard igneous ground. Laboring to open the sorry dry earth, for this poor dead animal. Resolute in her conviction to bury the dog. To recognize that he had been, and always will be, valuable. Even if no one could see it, not ever her.
Damn us she thought Damn us and our selfishness
And the hole grew, and grew, and grew.
