Kenny's shot was true and there was little blood, but the dog's head was warm and slick from the slow trickle.
The dog was facing me and its blood burned a hole in the snow. The blood was not in contrast to the dull whites, grays, browns and greens of the landscape. A pale grayish blue, the blood seemed in a hurry to become a part of its surroundings. Almost as if it were getting out of the way to bring our attention back to the dog.
Kenny's face changed in an instant from a mask of macho anger to a look of doubt and surprise. Just as quickly he regained control over himself and wore an ugly sneer. But I had seen it. Even under that false pretense of indifference Kenny was not as jaded as one might think. In that instant he had shown a softness I hadn't seen in the ten years I had known him.
Puzzled, I straightened up and looked into his eyes, yearning to see his true self again.
And that was when he lifted his shotgun towards me and said, "I hate you."
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