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Scrawny One – part II

August 27, 2013

One such time rolled out a litter of which there was a host of them. My memory fails me but I clearly remember the rowdy. Whitey! He was fat as a doped oaf. Then there were the rest of the brownies, some plain, some muddled with colors. But there was that little last lost least (can never forget this string of words I picked up from Joni Eareckson) piece of junk, sorry no offense meant (not sure what this is: emic or etic. Emic I guess)! He was practically no good for anything. Couldn’t stand or sit straight. Looked ugly as that duckling. Was too weak. Couldn’t fight his way through to his mother and so starved most of the time. Was the door mat for the rest of his siblings to walk over. The punching bag for them to pummel. The dog bone for them to chew. And their squeaking toy for them all to enjoy all they wanted. In the dog world I figure that’s the way they grow up:  Unjust.

The moment I saw him, I knew he’d be the first one to go: either he would be bitten to death, or starve or be run over, but will never see the light of life. Unanimously he was named: Scrawny one! He did eke out some pity from us.

Days rolled by. And on one of them I heard the shocking news: Whitey was dead!! What? The rowdy?  Yeah, once I saw him get his head caught in a slot in the wicket gate and survive, but he certainly deserved to live?!? A car didn’t see him.

Maybe Whitey’s assistant took over, while Scrawny straggled along. But still as the most exploited. Probably across batches! One by one they passed on or passed out. But strangely Scrawny stuck around!!!

To be continued…


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