Levin's Dog, part one

Scrawngy.

Matted, tufted...twisted-into-knot on twisted-knot; hair that grew like wire, barbed - heavy in places and sparse in others.

His step was like a coiled...or rather, uncoiled roll of barbed wire.

When he was a kid, he'd work on his daddy's farm helpin' to mend the fences (Matthew Levin, Beebo's Master, that is). Thick, heavy leather gloves, as thick as old Beebo's black and tarry hide - they were the only protection.

That wire, when a calf would knock it undone, pulling it from the fragile and rusted staples in weathered old wood, damn would that stuff uncoil fast.

God help ya if ya was workin' it when it unfurled.

Damn. Cut into ya like briar, shore nuff.

Old Beebo was the same. Son-of-a-bitch would jump till his last day, just like there was dynamite in his feet.

Good, old Beebo.

What a dog he was, in his youth.

Hell, he's lost half his teeth, and he's still better'n any Democrat I know. Course, none of them have any anyway. Crawl on their bellies like a worthless lap dog and lick your ass to death. Varmints gotta love that.

Old Beebo were'nt no lap dog...no sir. Probably wasn't no Democrat neither, if'n he could vote.

Damn good old dog, Beebo. Damned good old dog.

Be ashamed to put him down. Damned shame.