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Rated: 13+ · Essay · Comedy · #1214733
me and my crooked dog get shot at.
Richard knew that they were after his crooked dog.
Something that just 3 weeks ago meant nothing to anyone was now a most prized domestic animal. All he could do was scoop up his crooked dog and flee.
Why are they putting my crooked dog through this, he thought fleetingly. But thoughts were the last thing on his mind right now. They had to escape!
Just a simple walk on the beach, he thought. Everything in my life always gets complicated, he thought. So serene the sun had been, and now it was out to get him, just like the men chasing him.
He didn't have time to notice the flaming sand burning the bottom of his bare feet, or the sweat rushing from every inch of flesh. They were gaining on him at every hesitation, and they were all after his god damn crooked dog.
Then BOOM went his chest. The world stopped. Every sense that for the last 7 minutes were suppressed by adrenaline came out in force. Richard fell to his knees in pain, looked down and saw the puddle of blood on the ground. From my chest, he thought assuredly. Tossing his crooked dog into the ocean with what little amount of strength he could muster, he fell flat into the sand.
"I'm going to die," he uttered. He could faintly hear a male voice yelling angrily. Something about get the crooked dog.
Then his brain shut off.

The funeral occured with little fanfare. Very nondescript as far as funerals go. People came and women cried. Men laughed akwardly and held back their tears. The brothers traded anecdotes about Richard. But that was it.
There was nothing to notify the special place that Richard held in history. Nothing that told of the bravery, of giving his life to save his crooked dog.

As the pall bearers took their places, preparing to carry out Richard's body and bury it deep behind the cemetary gates, a loud gasp shot through the crown. A loud gasp followed by a faint murmur. Very indistinct yet a sound not usually heard at such a morose event. Although most of the attendants were too occupied by their own grief to notice, some eyes still studied the queer sight.

On the left side of the casket, Richard's three brothers positioned themselves for their somber duty. On the right, two uncles took their spots, waiting for their cue to hoist. And behind these two men stood a stranger. Dressed in traditional black mourning suit, hat and dark shades, a crooked little furry man with a tail could be seen, reaching out to assist in laying to rest his old friend--an old friend who had sacrificed himself.

A voice from the crowd shot out, "hey look a paw-bearer!"

The crooked dog got embarrassed and disgruntled and muttered obsenities under his breath.
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