My dad didn’t like to shoot animals. He didn’t own a gun. But he didn’t seem to mind killing animals when he had to.
Our dog got hold of one of our chickens one time. Dad took the dog out back of the house and struck it on the head with a hammer. He struck it over and over until the skull was soft and blood came out the canine’s eyes and mouth.
He buried it in a shallow grave part way up the hill from the house in our woods.
It was close enough to smell the decaying carcass on a hot summer night.
My sister and I visited the dirt heap and put flowers on its grave.
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