I was eleven when it happened.
Bartley the man of the house,
As  judge and jury,
Passed the sentence,
Condemning the mongrel.
Peter took him to the shore,
He licked his face.
Tail wagged with trust,
As he wrapped the bailing twine around his neck.

Carefully selecting two stones,
Amongst the many stones of Connemara.
He hitched them to the bailing twine,
Using a made up sacred knot,
To deliver death.

Lifting him in the cradle of his arms,
Which in time would hold his son.
At the sheltered place where the sand was pure white,
And the little waves caressed the shore,
The dried seaweed crunched underfoot,
Creating the pungent smell of sea,
He threw him in the deepest part.

He struggled.
Broke the surface once.
Gulped the air.
Fell back.
In the crystal clear water,
Legs threshing in the sea of life.
Then his mouth opened to the ocean.
Wild eyes.
The last ****.
And then stillness.
The stillness of a carcass anchored,
To the sandy bottom,
With twin stones  from a worn rocky field.

I lamented the cruelty of it all.
But then for all its beauty,
Connemara was a hard and cruel place.
The gallows audience left,
Let the tide to do its work.
Never to swim there again,
A place tainted by the evil,
Of the drowning of the dog.