It was Sunday afternoon. We

left him tied to his leash and went to Lowe's in Fayetteville to buy materials

for a dog run. We suspected that some female was in heat on the road behind

our property because Guthrie was exhibiting behavior that can only mean

one thing.

Several times during the week

he had broken free to disappear into the woods, always in the same direction.

When he returned and was restrained again, he protested as he has never

protested before.

Love can do that. Such irrational

behavior is certainly not limited to dogs.

It's strange. I can call him

a Jack Russell. I can call him Guthrie. I can't remember when I first

started referring to him as "a little fart," but he got called

that too. I just never called him a dog. He was our little buddy from

day one.

Hyper, opinionated, strong-willed,

lightning fast. He caught squirrels and rabbits and even birds. He ruled.

Except for the deer. He gave up on scaring them off the property, but

did keep them at least 30 to 40 feet away from the house, and out of my

flower beds.

More than once I was told he

should be an inside dog, and certainly he deserved to be, but I'm allergic,

so he had a house on the back porch, a house under the porch, a nice pen

with a cover, and two leashes. Frequently he was allowed to roam freely.

And no human or animal ever loved the outdoors quite like he did.

Normally, a pen or a leash

did not upset him. He knew he could get out several times a day to romp

and play when we were out with him. But now he seemed to have found a

girlfriend. I was sure of it.

Never has any animal begged

for freedom like he began to beg. Twice during the week he broke free

when we were taking him from pen to porch. It clearly was time for a dog

run. We would clean out just enough space for half of the run to extend

into the woods. The other half would come up by the garden. It would be

in one of his favorite spots on the property.

We returned from Lowe's to

find the leash broken. I started to cry as soon as I saw it. Within seconds

Daniel spotted him in my rocker on the back porch.

As I started up the steps toward

him, he painfully made his way down out of the chair. His neck and shoulder

definition was gone, as was his collar. His body convulsed with spasm

as he moved towards me.

I reached to pick him up and

saw that it hurt too much to touch him. I tossed his blanket to the floor

and he laid at my feet. I put in a call to the vet. I stroked. I sobbed.

The ripples of spasm gripped him every 10 seconds or so. He stared into

my eyes with a look that I shall never forget. The eyes said it all.

Daniel got down on the floor

with us to examine Guthrie more closely. He quickly found where the bullet

had entered his little body. There was no exit wound. We could not fathom

what had happened to him that would so distort his neck and shoulders.

We did not want to try to imagine such things...

While waiting for the vet to

return a call that never came, Daniel used my office line to phone Derrick

(a paramedic). While I stroked and sobbed, they discussed what was happening

before us. They decided there was only one humane thing to do. As if humane

was a word that had any meaning at all on a sad Sunday in Meriwether County.

It is six days now. The tears

keep coming, but I'm not vomiting anymore and I did doze last night without

actually crying myself to sleep. I have been out to his grave daily. It

is near the spot where the run was going to be. His toys are piled atop

the small mound of dirt that marks his resting place. I will never own

another pet.

"I believe... that

sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't

give me the right to be cruel."

Author unknown