“Trump VP contender Kristi Noem writes of killing her dog—and goat—in new book.” — The Guardian 4/26/24
The dog is wiry and playful. Its red mouth hangs open and the tang of blood briefly throbs through the chilly South Dakota air with every heaving pant. The chicken stares blankly into the sun. The chicken’s owner takes wary steps toward the mongrel fearing its boundless energy and needle teeth. The pup dances back and targets another hen. The pile of corpses grows as the day stretches and warps.
The patriot snarls an oath of contempt at the cur. She had taken it on as a hunter to help scare pheasants into the air and retrieve them when she sends them bleeding back to earth. But in its fourteen months it had discovered it much preferred bouncing joyously through the tall grass in erratic circles.
The patriot has tried in her way to explain to the dog that each animal on her ranch has a job. You eat after you have worked, she tells the creature to its bottomless uncomprehension. You see the horses? They help us look after the herd. The goats keep the grass neat and provide us milk. Your only job is to scare up pheasants and bring them to me. That’s not such hard work as the goats do every day, is it? The pup never seems to be listening. Instead it rolls onto its back to invite what it eternally hopes are the caresses of indulgent hands.
Despite her failure to explain the truth of life to the dog the patriot insisted upon bringing it to the next hunt thinking the miserable creature could learn by example and shed some of its nervous energy. Leashless and untrained the thing would fling itself violently toward the nearest flock and send them skyward long before the patriot and her hunters were in position. Shouting failed to work. As did a liberal application of electric shocks. The dog’s joy could not be contained.
The patriot was loath to declare failure in both this hunt and general canine pedagogy. The reality was inescapable. She and the dog left early and drove her truck too fast homeward with bloodless knuckles gripping a dented leather steering wheel.
And now this. Rather than go home empty-handed the patriot stops at the neighbors to cajole a dozen eggs. There the dog takes advantage of a brief lapse in vigilance to free itself from the truck and indulge in its greatest craving. Scampering through the army of people the mongrel leaps at a hen, clamps her neck between its jaws and shakes its head violently and joyously until it feels fragile vertebrae snap.
See its unfettered bliss. The blood and dust swirling as it prances with its trophy. See the proud look in its eyes. It has finally done its master’s bidding. The pup in this moment is too happy to fathom the patriot’s darkened countenance.
A long and bloody afternoon ensues. The neighbors corral their living chickens as the pup continues its blissful work. The patriot curses and grabs at the dog but cannot lay a finger on it until it is fully satisfied with its accomplishments.
In the truck the patriot and dog regard each other as a late afternoon sun sends a dusty barrier between them. The patriot knows what must be done.
Down the road is a gravel pit staffed by a small construction crew who peer incuriously out over their equipment as the truck pulls up. The patriot drags the exhausted dog out by its collar and unceremoniously plops it onto the caliche. Bereft of targets in this barren place it opts to stay put. It has already had the best day of its life. The twelve-gauge shotgun, denied use during the hunt, is loaded and racked.
The construction workers do not say a word until the patriot has left with her shotgun and her truck and a bundle wrapped in a tarp. They only begin to probe at their bruised memories of the afternoon when the patriot and her truck and her shotgun return. They fall silent again when she points at the passenger seat and says, This goat’s been pissing me off too.