George said, “I seen a guy in Weed that had an Airedale could herd sheep. Learned it from the other dogs.”
Carlson was not to be put off. “Look, Candy. This ol’ dog jus’ suffers hisself all the time.
If you was to take him out and shoot him right in the back of the head—”
he leaned over and pointed, “—right there, why he’d never know what hit him.”
Candy looked about unhappily. “No,” he said softly. “No, I couldn't do that. I had 'im too long.”
“He don't have no fun,” Carlson insisted. “And he stinks to beat hell. Tell you what.”
“I'll shoot him for you. Then it won't be you that does it.”
Candy threw his legs off his bunk. He scratched the white stubble whiskers on his cheek nervously.
“I'm so used to him,” he said softly. “I had him from a pup.”
“Well, you ain't bein' kind to him keepin' him alive,” said Carlson.
“Look, Slim's bitch got a litter right now. I bet Slim would give you one of them pups to raise up, wouldn't you, Slim?”
The skinner had been studying the old dog with his calm eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “You can have a pup if you want to.”
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