FIRST DEATH

When I was four, Spotty,
our almost beagle,
had the misfortune to wander
down to the Oberholtzer farm
where their dog, a misnamed
monster they called Beauty,
savaged him.
He’s barely alive, my brother said
at the supper table.
My father said I guess we’ll
need to . . . um . . .
take care of him.
I want to help I said
You can’t my brother said.
Let him at least go see him
my mother said.
There were big red holes
all over Spotty who stood
shivering in the barn
and looked at me
the way he looked when
he did something bad.
You better go in now
my father said.
Why do you have the ax?
I said.