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Carlson trudges into the building, his shoes leaving a muddy trail behind him. The chatter of the bunkhouse is a low hum as the men (George, Slim, and Candy) are asking Lennie about the pup he wants. Carlson shuts the bunkhouse door behind him, the frail building wobbling a little, causing a window to creak open. He wipes the sweat off of his forehead, placing the hunting rifle back in its’ spot on the wall, checking his Apple Watch.
“Whew, just hit my best time! 3 in two hours, boss will be happy…” Carlson pauses as he’s interrupted by Bowie bumping into one of the bunks before he sniffs the air. “Candy, why don’t you just get rid of the old oaf already? He’s stinking up the place!”
Candy looks up from his phone, pausing the old video of Bowie. “He doesn’t stink.” He reaches over and pets the old dog before adding, “I took him for a dog wash just yesterday.”
“Well I can’t stand him in here,” says Carlson. “That stink hangs around after he’s gone, it does.” He strides over to Bowie and crouches down in front of him to get a good look. “He’s got no teeth. Can’t even walk properly; bumping into all the boss’s rifles, knocking them over. He’s no good, Candy. No good at all. And no good to himself, either. Say, why don’t we take him to the vet? They’ll put him down painlessly.”
The old man seems uncomfortable at the thought of such a thing. “Well- God, I’ve had him since he was a pup. Helped hunt out the deer,” he says proudly. “He was the best damn dog I’ve ever seen.”
But Carlson isn’t put off. “Look, Candy. The old dog just suffers—all day, every day. Why, if we just put him down, I mean, he’d never even feel it. Wouldn’t even know what hit him.”
Candy continues petting the dog unhappily. “No, I’ve had him too long. The dog’s, well, my dawg.” He chuckles. “I mean, I’ve had him since he was a pup.”
Carlson sighs, rubbing his temples. “I know, Candy, but Slim’s raising a litter to help hunt the deer, and you can just take one of them, Slim wouldn’t mind. Right, Slim?”
Tired eyes meet Candy’s, then drop to the dog. “Yeah. You can have a pup.” Slim meets the old man’s eyes again, but more solemnly this time. “Carl’s right, Candy. That dog’s no good for nobody. If I were Bowie, I’d wish to be put down too. He’s probably old and tired.”
The old man’s hand retracts from the old dog in acceptance as Bowie wanders around the cabin. Candy glances from face to face. From Slim, to George, to Lennie, to Carlson. It’s dark outside now, and a wolf howls from the nearby forest. A young hunter enters the old bunkhouse, its’ frail frame shaking from the force of the door being opened and closed. The man places his hunting rifles onto its’ spot on the wall before trodding over to his bunk as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, covering his nose as the smell hit him.
“If you want me to, I’ll put the old oaf out of his misery right now, it’ll take no time to drive to the vet,” Carlson offers. “You’ll get a new pup from Slim, and it’ll be alright. There’s nothing left for him. Can’t eat, can’t see-“ Bowie bumps into a bunk a woofs weakly, “-can’t even walk without hurting.”
“It’s dark out. Why don’t we wait until tomorrow? You can’t walk out to the vet on your own,” pleads Candy.
Carlson sighs deeply, rubbing his temples again. “For God’s sake, old man. You’re just like the old oaf, you are. No, we have a car. It’s not the 1900’s, now, is it?”
“No,” Candy mumbles. “It isn’t.”
“Finally, Jesus Christ. Now, let’s get it over with. Don’t want to be smelling this mutt for any longer than I have to,” Carlson mutters under his breath before looking at Candy as he gently grabs Bowie’s leash. Carlson looks back at the old dog. “C’mon, Bowie. Let’s get going to the vet.” All the men except for Candy watch him. “Come boy. Come on, boy,” Carlson softly says as he leads the dog out of the bunkhouse. He apologetically looks back up to Candy. “He won’t feel a thing.” Bowie stiffly gets up to his feet, following the gently pulling leash.
As the door closes, Slim turns to Candy. “You can have any puppy you want.”
Candy doesn’t answer, instead lying down on his bunk. The sound of old videos playing on a phone can be heard—laughing, a dog barking, and an awkward silence that falls over the room.
“Anybody want to play a little Candy Crush?” asks George.
“I’ll play with you,” Slim responds, moving over to sit on the bunk next to George. The bed creaks as the two men share the tablet, a strange emptiness invading the space, a solemn silence as the smell of Bowie drifted out of the window, never to be smelt again.