The Old Hound

I remember Otho Williams and his ranch across the street.
I remember the old hound dog we had to kill because he had an incredibly bad case of mange.
I remember the gun, a twenty-two long rifle and how the bullets shined as Otho loaded it.
I remember the cattle on Otho's ranch and his story about his favorite pet bull that one day played just a little too rough with him and gored him through the chest, it caused him to have a lengthy stay in the hospital. He said he still loved that animal.
I remember the summer rains in Tennessee, the smell of wet dirt just before a drenching.
I remember it rained that day.
I remember looking and looking to find the hound so we could shoot him.
I remember the feel of the rifle in my hands, just a cold piece of steel.
I remember not thinking much about the dog or the fun we had together playing, him nipping at my arm and yipping in mock ferocity.
I remember another dog, our old English sheep dog named Jude.
I remember how he bit me one morning as I walked into the house.
I remember he wasn’t there when I came home from school that afternoon.
I remember Otho holding the hound and gently stroking him and quietly telling me to aim carefully.
I remember when the rifle chuffed the dog leapt up and started howling a terrible cry.
I remember an "Oh shit" and feeling like a monster.
I remember spending the next hour and a half trying to find and catch the dog. We followed his pained howling through the fields.
I remember finding the dog and Otho pulling the trigger to silence the old hound.
I don't remember where Otho told me to aim.
I don't remember any tears.
I don't remember the dog’s eyes or his tail wagging.
It is almost as if the old hound, because I had betrayed him, refused to inhabit my memory.
I will always remember that hound was an animal that trusted me.


This was from an exercise in a creative writing class in 1995/96 called appropriatly the "I remember exercise." I nearly cried when I read it aloud to the class.