Once upon a time there was a little hillbilly named Omar Watson
who had a hound dog named Geriatric Blue. They went everywhere together;
the river, the creek, the Texaco Latrine between the river and the creek.
But one day Geriatric Blue was bravely defending Omar from a hobo and got
rabies.
"I know he is
your only friend in the world and that you'll likely become a stunted
individual because we couldn't afford a vet to put Geriatric down in a humane
fashion," said Omar's Mom, "but you have to take your shooting gun
and shoot him in the face. It builds character."
Omar got his
shooting gun. He leveled the sights at Blue and put his sweaty finger to the trigger.
"Gotta pull
the trigger," he said. "Got to be a man and make momma proud."
But one look in
Blue's rolling eyes and frothy gums reminded him of all the good times they had
being barefoot and throwing sticks in the river and doing whatever else it was
that redneck children do on a regular basis. It was very bittersweet, which I am telling you rather than describing using critical detail because it takes less effort on my part.
"I can't do
it, Ma," Omar said. "I can't shoot Blue."
And so he didn't.
Geriatric Blue lived a long, happy life biting Omar's redneck neighbors
in the neck and buttocks. Then came the day he bit Squirrely Zeke
Loughton, who was out of his inbred mind on some sort of moonshine he'd made
out of sterno, Scope and crystal meth. The drugs caused the rabies virus
to mutate, and he became patient zero of the zombie apocalypse.
This would change
Little Omar's life considerably, but that's not what this story is about.
It's about a boy and his dog. Happy times.
THE END?
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