May 2019 | view full story as a .pdf

By William Hall

You might wonder what kind of man would murder a dog. Leave it behind the guardrail of a rural road. Some psychopath, maybe, someone with evil inside, but judge for yourself.

The incident happened on my way driving from Maine to “Graceland.” That’s how my wife talked about such excursions, no matter my destination—as in “Elvis has left the building.” Though to my way of thinking, and I told her so, any break was a healthy break. No harm in taking a drive now and then, except in this case for the mutt.

Sheila and I were just marking time, anyway. I’d gotten sober, little by little, and the Ninth Step says to make amends, but I guess the damage was done. Soon we’d move on—it was understood. Meanwhile, we snapped at each other like hungry strays. Trivial shit. On this day: Why hadn’t I bothered to repair the something or other.

We both needed to cool off. “Screw it.” I grabbed my keys to the pickup. “I have to get out of here for a while.”

I had no place special in mind, but a half hour later I found myself in Peru, Maine, a couple of towns over from mine. Driving always seems to relax me—even when I had a CDL and was making long-haul trips twice a week to the Carolinas. That was all behind me—the closest I got to a commercial vehicle now was my receiver’s job on the FedEx dock. But I like the feel of the wheel. As I tooled along I could almost forget the argument.

The road was almost forgettable too, one of those back routes that looked familiar only at a certain curve or when I came up a particular hill. No signs to help navigate, just scrawny pine trees and clumps of birches and utility poles leaning like drunks. Every so often, a clearing where someone had left a trailer or tried to farm.

As I drove through the woods of Peru, admiring the fresh leaves on a bright spring afternoon, it occurred to me that I could keep going, see where Something-or-Other Highway would take me. Shelburne, New Hampshire, was my estimate. Franconia in under two hours. Boston, a straight shot down I-93. I’d seen 27 states; I could go in a million directions. Put time and distance between Sheila and me, make a clean break of everything. And, God forbid, have an occasional drink like a normal person, which amounts to the same as leaving.

Sobriety has its place. I knew this. And being with Sheila was generally more good than bad. But small stuff can wear on you. A pebble gets in your shoe, and you end up walking barefoot.

Around this point, I noticed something on the road ahead of me. Trash? Maybe something fallen off a tailgate and left behind. When I was closer I realized the debris was actually a dog. A big fella, sitting in a sunny spot where the pavement wasn’t crumbled, itching himself. People let dogs run loose out there, but why he chose to be in that spot was beyond me. When I sounded my horn, he stopped scratching, stretched, and began trotting toward the side of the road.

Maybe he had a change of heart. At 40 miles an hour, I only gave him a second or two. First the Jesus Christ moment when I saw him turn back. Then my instinct kicked in. There was a thump. I felt it in the steering column.

The dog wound up in the ditch, ten yards from where I pulled over. On his side, breathing fast. Some kind of shepherd mix, I saw, with a leather collar but no tags. A red tongue hanging out, next to a trickle of blood and a pool of dog piss.

He was trembling and snarled when I tried to touch him. In shock. I got a tarp from the pickup’s utility box, thinking a cover might provide warmth and prevent a bite. But when I returned, he was still and not breathing.

I looked around, east from where I’d come and then over to where the sun was beginning to set in the hills. No one else was on the road. Nothing appeared different than it had been a few minutes ago. If you’d come upon the scene, you might think I’d just happened to pause there too. But I couldn’t help but look behind me as I pulled the dog onto the tarp, dragged him from the ditch, and found a spot near the guardrail where he was out of sight.

Because I knew, from inside my skin, from the pressure I still felt against my right foot, that I’d goosed the gas at the last second and deliberately killed the animal.

In my defense, this was not premeditated. Though it must have been more than a muscle twitch. Perhaps without knowing it, I was looking to stop and avoid what might lie ahead. Maybe accelerating put the brake on a bad turn of events that would only get worse, like when you counter-steer to come out of a skid.

But it was no time for standing around. The pickup’s grille was dented. There was blood on my jeans. I was suddenly very tired and wanted nothing more than to go home and get some sleep, at least for the night.

I drove over to Peru again a week later. Morbid curiosity, I guess. And despite a sarcastic remark from Sheila, I almost laughed. If you only knew, I wanted to say.

I had to retrace my steps, mile by mile, waiting to recognize one familiar tree or stretch of road after another. When I finally found the guardrail, I wondered if I was in the wrong place. But the ditch, the brush, the angle of the road were all the same. Only the dog and the tarp were gone, so there was no evidence of my crime, or of my possible redemption.