[return to author's index]

w f owen, USA

the taste of blood

the last dog we had growing up, a boxer named "bullet", developed the habit of jumping up and laying his paws on the chest of anyone who approached. licking and slobbering, he only wanted to play, but would knock over small children so we were forced to take him to live in the rural town of my grandparents. there was plenty of open space, rabbits and possums to hunt. when he needed to be chained, he had the shade of the plum trees. on our visits, we would throw the green canning plums for him to chase. he liked to chase. he also sometimes went after the neighbor's chickens and killed a few. "once they get the taste of blood, you might as well shoot 'em," the man explained. And one day, that's just what he did.

[return to author's index]