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when i was a child my dog was sent to live on a farm. her name was lucky, and she was a beagle. she was also filled with hate and malice, and a hunger for my tender child flesh, but that was beside the point. i came home from school after having mastered the art of speedskipping (which i maintain is the fastest mode of travel but it can’t be done without mockery so i refrain) to my mum sitting me down and gently explaining that lucky moved to a farm, where she could run, bound, play and hunt hapless children until her devil’s heart was content. i knew at that moment she had died, but i didn’t want to say anything. my mum had a story in place to try and spare me the grief, and i tenderly played along, wanting to maintain it. i brought this up bemusedly, years later, as a teenager. laughing at the simple story only a fool would believe, covering for my dog’s death. 

it was at this point my mum told me that no, lucky actually went to live on a farm. my aunt’s farm, in england. she lived for another twelve years.

there are pictures.


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