by Pauline Masurel
He took the dog out of sight, led it round to the barn. It was a miserable cur with a battered look but it seemed indecent to do the deed in the open air. He removed the collar, manoeuvred it by the scruff, away from the malt mash store.
The awl was ready, sharpened. He struck a strong blow but as the spike fell the dog twisted. The tool carved its flank and his view blurred. Spray splintered the air red but the mutt never squealed, just shivered and puked into the dust. The fine aerosol of blood was everywhere, on his shirt, across the floor and on the muzzle of the dumb steer across the barn.
He held his arm up to strike again but even though he could clearly see the dog wasn't dead he found his body wouldn't make that final move to finish it.
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