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8 My Checkered Past A painted dog keeps coming to my head; he’s red and black, no bigger than your hand, as if he’s painted on a piece of wood. I don’t know who the dog in question is; there are so many in my checkered past including those that I betrayed sometimes to death. I left one in an angry field with an angry man I knew would want to kill the dog for nothing more than nothing else to do. He said he couldn’t hunt; he might as well be dead. I took the easy way because I wasn’t brave. I turned away, I could not watch his face. A painted dog keeps coming to my head. ...

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