“I ought to of shot that dog myself, George. I shouldn’t ought to of let no stranger shoot my dog.”

And at his heels there walked a dragfooted sheep dog, gray of muzzle, and with pale, blind old eyes.

“Carl’s right, Candy. That dog ain’t no good to himself. I wisht somebody’d shoot me if I got old an’ a cripple.”

A shot sounded in the distance. The men looked quickly at the old man. Every head turned toward him.

You seen what they done to my dog tonight? They says he wasn't no good to himself nor nobody else. When they can me here I wisht somebody'd shoot me.

“Got no teeth,” he said. “He’s all stiff with rheumatism. He ain’t no good to you, Candy. An’ he ain’t no good to himself. Why’n’t you shoot him, Candy?”

You hadda, George. I swear you hadda.

"Never you mind," said Slim. "A guy got to sometimes."

“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?”

“Awright—take ’im.” He did not look down at the dog at all. He lay back on his bunk and crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.