He cursed under his breath when he found the sliding door to the old cowshed open wide enough so that the dog could slip out. Since Peter had hung himself from the centre beam no one except the old man and the dog had gone near it.
The wife didn’t want anything to do with the dog after, couldn’t bear the sight of Blacky. So he kept him in the old shed, a good distance away from the farmhouse. Peter had barely started training Blacky and the dog was only a few months old when he killed himself. A good dog, would have made a good working dog.
The old man spent a few hours every day walking through the field with him, throwing sticks which Blacky would return to him to have them thrown again. No point in training him to be anything other than a pet now. The farm was no longer operational, all the livestock sold. Peter was the only son, the only child, and had been in the process of taking over.
He went inside calling Blacky’s name. The dog was gone. He sat down on the upturned rusty bucket and buried his face in his hands. Was this how God had decided to punish him for his past sins and dark secrets? Peter had hated him when he found out what he had done to his mother.
Someone had been here, must have been some kids from the nearby village. Seeking this place out for a thrill. They had even taken the rope with them. The rope which Peter had used to take his own life.
The only child he had kept and shared with the wife who couldn’t have children. The only boy. The others had been girls and had been no use to him except that he had made good money selling them off.
(c) Ash N. Finn, 2016