I just found myself close to him and saw that his cheeks were soaked with tears.
"I tried," he said through his sobs. "They were flying above us, there were so many, and I aimed at them, but I couldn't. And I wanted you to hear that at least I did what I could, so I lowered the rifle and shot. When the birds flew away and I looked down, I saw Dog lying there."
"Is he dead?" I asked him.
"No," said Karl, and now he started to cry properly. "But... he's going to die soon. Blood is running from his mouth, and both of his eyes are ruined. He's fallen to the ground, crying and trembling."
"Run," I said.
We ran, and after a few minutes, I saw something moving among the heather. A tail. Dog's tail. The dog smelled us coming. We stood over him. His doggy eyes looked like broken egg yolks.
"He's gone," I said. Not because I am some expert in veterinary medicine, as it seems all cowboys in Westerns are, but because even if Dog managed to survive, he wouldn't deserve to live as a blind hunting dog. "You have to kill him."
