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Blue Merle
Why do we live in a society where an ominous, unseen but surely clean and sterile white clinic serves the answer to "what happens to old dogs"? Why does it have to fall to me to singlehandedly organize and price check the imminent termination of my beloved dog?
I want nature to take its course. I can clean up dog piss, I've done it my whole life. I can carry him outside, I grew as he aged. I can make sure his old, rattling body gets enough food and water. I can still watch him, and talk to him, and pet him, and see him recognize me by near sight or smell or dull hearing. I feel like a death merchant, like I just want back in time and stabbed my 10 year old self in the throat. I hate people. I hate my calcerous, brainless, waste of a species. We're vermin beyond scum, and scum beyond the morally bereft propagators of our own current predicament for not taking notice. I'm going to see us eaten, or halved, or taken down a peg if it's the last thing I do. For Milo. Because he was a dog, and he would have trusted me regardless of my faith in my fellow man. You venomous, miserable bastards.
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