Faustino Liri had nothing but contempt for men who wept. Particularly men of a certain age. This world was a septic tank filled to the chin with piss and shit. You waded through it as best you could until finally your strength gave out and you drowned. That was all there was to it. Anyone who hadn’t realised that by his age deserved the kicking that life gave them. Yet the tears flowed down his cheeks even so. They flowed like rainwater down these craggy mountain slopes after a storm, leaving them wet and glistening, while his chest ached like a heart attack and his shoulders humped helplessly with sobs.
Three weeks old. That’s all Reuben had been when Faustino had picked him from his litter. He’d been a sickly pup, with a look of bitter sadness in his eyes that had mirrored exactly how Faustino himself had felt at that time, abandoned by his wife for his neighbour and best friend. He himself had nursed Reuben through his illness, spending more on vets than he could rightly afford, or any animal warranted. But his reward had been great indeed. His reward had been the most faithful companion a man could have asked for, and in truth the one great love of his life.
He’d been dead at least a little while, judging by the number of flies that had settled on him, by his stiffness and the unnatural concavity of his chest. It must have happened last night. He liked to slip out in the darkness and have himself a little fun. Who could blame him for that? Faustino knelt beside him. He could see no trace of injury on this side, so he turned him over. Nothing there either. He hadn’t expected anything, for he’d known the truth the moment he’d seen him. This was poison. Exactly as Luca had threatened. Just because Reuben liked to go into their yard every so often, to romp around with their chickens. Of course he went in their yard to romp around with their chickens. He was a dog. That was what dogs did. If they didn’t like it, they should put up a fucking fence.
He scooped Reuben up in his arms, to carry him back to his cramped and gloomy one-bedroomed farm cottage. He tried to hold him in as dignified a manner as he could, yet his head kept lolling even so. The dog was heavier than he’d realised, or maybe he was simply getting old. His arms and legs were spent by the time he finally got home. He laid him gently down by the wooden kennel he himself had built and contemplated him for a moment before covering him with the ragged blue blanket that he’d loved so much, bringing bittersweet memories of the way he’d bared his teeth and snarled as they’d fought over it during their playful tugs-of-war.
With the heel of his hand, he brushed away the tears that somehow still kept leaking, for all that he felt utterly dried out inside. Then he marched inside his home for his shotgun and a pocketful of shells.