Hearted Youtube comments on Dan Davis History (@DanDavisHistory) channel.
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I raised a dog from the age of 7. We hunted and we herded cattle together. When I was 19, my dog slipped on ice, fell beneath a visitor’s tires and sustained a painfully crippling injury. My dad and I drove through a blizzard at night to a vet. My dog whimpering, screaming. I carried him in. I held him during the injection. I carried his limp body back to the van. We drove home. We told my mom and sister who burst into tears. I wanted to bury him that night. So, Dad and I drove to the highest point on our farm. It commanded no view in the blizzard and dark. We cleared away snow. We broke through frozen earth to the loose soil beneath and dug deeply. We placed him and covered him. My dad in broken voice saying, “He was a good dog”. Returning home I went to my room. Lay down and finally permitted myself just one tear. One. (At that time I thought this manly virtue, not repression).
Those boys were well practiced at killing. Having witnessed the slaughter of steers from my toddlerhood, hunted and sometimes killed sick animals, I’m confident they were fine with killing. I believe these boys were bearing the responsibility of manhood. Hands steady, their strike sure. No hesitation. What greater shame than two strikes? What betrayal to the dog if I must strike twice. What a burden of shame and guilt to not follow through and do it right. If you can’t do right by your dog their is no man to be found in you. Your dog fears death no more than napping. But aged with muscles stiff, eyes graying and easily winded; what troubles the dog is not being able to keep up with you; For to be with you in hunting and herding and feasting is All to them. When the time comes, a man does what he must. The old men know. As I chew the roasted flesh, my faithful companion and joyful servant joins my life as a man. My dear dog, what greater honor there may be, I am not worthy to offer. You gave all. May I be worthy of thee. I shall remember you even as I do my duty. These men knew fate called on them to give their life. They would go to their fate as willingly and gracefully as their dogs. And If fate should call on them to a strike a mercy killing of father, brother or friend, they would.
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