Out in Colorado, I lived on a ranch that I won in a poker game (that’s a story for another time).

A broad stretch of land sloped along a mountain pass up high where the air is thin. Where the air has a chill, something nostalgic. There it sat.

Two dogs came with it—to tend to the land, I suppose. Strange breeds but worthy dogs. One was named Nails and the other, Hammer. So it said on their collars.

Nails didn’t hear a thing, not because he couldn’t hear but because he didn’t want to listen. I never saw a dog like that before, just flat out refusing to hear. A mule? Sure.

A curious pooch Nails was. We couldn’t hardly find him most afternoons. I’d light the stove for dinner and pretty soon he’d come back covered in mud and feathers, all wet.

Yeah, you could say Nails was more screw than nail.

Hammer, he was older; a born-natural protector. Always worried about everybody. That dog carried the weight, no doubt.

One day we couldn’t find Nails, so I set off on the horse to go looking. Hammer volunteered, too. Together, we cut up along the ridge at the pine edge and followed it up through to the pass where the highway sat. The traffic glided above on an old spandrel bridge.

Pretty soon we could hear Nails’ whimper echo off the abutment and Hammer let out a bwoof and took off in a trot towards the hollow yelp.

Some fur-trapper set out a trap on the riverbank and Nails got his foreleg caught in that damned thing. Probably chasing a chickadee, my guess. I carried him back to the ranch on my lap and dressed the wound. His bone was gleaming in the light of the lantern.

That dog needs to be put down.

The crack and boom of a storm could be heard off yonder. I supposed the river would rise up over the bank where the trap sat decommissioned, wet with blood. I’m sure I won’t ever know who set it in the first place but I could probably guess.

It doesn’t matter anyhow.

That dog needs to be put down.

Nails’ incessant whimper: I heard it. I wonder if he hears it now, too. His bleached bone bold in the deranged matted fur. I waited too long and I shouldn’t have. I knew it then like the feeling that it’s time to take down the Christmas tree.

I could hear rain drip in the gutter like a happy metronome.

“We best load up and take him in to town, bud,” I said to the other dog beside me.

The problem isn’t going to go away on account of us pretending not to see it. 

“Maybe there’s something they can do. You better come too.” Hammer lifted his head and stood.

Maybe not. That dog more than likely just needs to be put down. Somewhere in the mountain pass is a fox right now, unrestrained.

I thought I saw it when we sailed over the bridge in the downpour. A flash of orange in the switchgrass. But, I can’t say for sure.

The sun doesn’t shine beneath a bridge, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing underneath it. And, the next thing you know you step on the damned thing and its steel teeth sheer your flesh right down to the bone and then you’ll howl like a hellhound, too. Then, you’ll know. Then, it will all be dealt with.