Born Bad
“The animal was cowering in a corner of the kitchen of the railroad fiat–his fine head was lopsided, a piece of his skull missing under the ragged fur. A deep pocket of scar tissue glowed white where one eye had been, the other was cataract-milky, fire-dotted with fear. The dog's tail hung behind him at a demented angle, one front paw hung useless in a plaster cast.
"Who did it?" The old man wasn't listening, not finished yet. Squeezing the wound to get the pus out. "Buster guards out back, ...where the chicken wire is. They tormented him, threw stuff at him, made him crazy. Then they cut the lock. Two of them. One had a baseball bat, the other had a piece of pipe. My Buster…he wouldn't hurt anyone. They beat on him, over and over, laughing. I ran downstairs to stop them…they just slapped me, like I was a fly. They did my Buster so bad, it even hurts him when I try and rub him." The old man sat crying at his kitchen table.
The dog watched me, a thin whine coming from his open mouth.MoreLess
"Who did it?" The old man wasn't listening, not finished yet. Squeezing the wound to get the pus out. "Buster guards out back, ...where the chicken wire is. They tormented him, threw stuff at him, made him crazy. Then they cut the lock. Two of them. One had a baseball bat, the other had a piece of pipe. My Buster…he wouldn't hurt anyone. They beat on him, over and over, laughing. I ran downstairs to stop them…they just slapped me, like I was a fly. They did my Buster so bad, it even hurts him when I try and rub him." The old man sat crying at his kitchen table.
The dog watched me, a thin whine coming from his open mouth.MoreLess
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