With my ax handle, I pried apart his locked jaws. Holding onto his collar, I led him off to one side.
I couldn’t turn him loose as I knew if I did, he would go back to the lion.
With one hand I started examining him. I ran my fingers through the short, red hair.
I could feel the quivering muscles and the hot, sweaty skin.
He was a bloody mess. His long, velvety ears were shredded.
His entire body was a mass of deep, raw, red wounds.
On both sides of his rib carriage, the sharp claws had laid the flesh open to the bone.
His friendly old face was pitiful to see. A razor-sharp claw had ripped down on an angle across his right eye.
It was swollen shut. I wondered if he would ever see from that eye again.
Blood dripped from his wounds and fell on the white oak leaves.
I saw he was bleeding to death. With tears running down my cheeks, I did the only thing a hunter could do.
I raked the leaves away and let his blood drip on the black mountain soil.
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