To the dog abuser in rural Mississippi. The hound you left chained behind the tire shop is with us now. Her name is Marigold. We got her a few years ago.
You beat Marigold so hard she went totally blind. She wasn’t even two years old. And you blinded her.
I can’t imagine what she did to make you so mad. She is a gentle dog. Painfully gentle. Plus, she can’t weigh more than twenty-five pounds.
I can only assume that you were not in your right mind.
She had one eye removed, one eyelid stitched shut. The other eyeball is just for show. It doesn’t work, the iris is bloodred and vacant. But it’s a beautiful eye.
Because, you see, she is a beautiful girl.
It’s taken a few years to relearn how to get around. She bumped into furniture, she walked headfirst into walls. She uses her nose to lead her. She is a professional now.
Being blind is still brand new for her. And it’s a full-time job. She is constantly working, constantly trying to map out
her new world.
Constantly deciphering new smells. Constantly trying to determine whether a nearby sound is friendly or otherwise.
She walks with a careful gait. Often, she high-steps, like she’s walking through quicksand. Other times she tests every step, like she’s on a tightrope.
It took a while to relearn stairs. She tripped over curbs. She fell over thresholds. She needed help finding her food bowl sometimes. She loves toilet water.
But I don’t want you feeling sorry for her. I don’t know if you are capable of such feelings. I just want you to know what you did to her.
You made her afraid. She cowers at booming noises. Probably because she can’t see what’s making the noise.
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