Work Text:
Once, things were so simple.
Sniff, sniff the ground.
Sense, sense the scent.
Leap into the reeds.
Flush out the ducks.
Listen for the shots, and - sometimes - the thuds.
Pick up the dead ducks and display them (if there were any).
Laugh (if there weren't).
And laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh... But why was I laughing?
Things started to get complicated.
Sometimes, I was sorry to pick up the dead ducks; I was supposed to be happy.
Sometimes, I laughed when the ducks flew off because I was joyful; I was supposed to be mocking.
Then, I started to question everything.
Why did I always bark thrice when flushing out the ducks? Why couldn't I just keep on barking?
Why were there never more than two ducks at a time? Why not a great big flock of hundreds?
(Maybe because I had picked up too many dead ones?)
Why couldn't I laugh when the clay pigeons were missed?
I really, really wanted to.
But I couldn't.
It hurt, somehow.
And - I think this was the last straw - why did the ducks have to die?
Why did I have to chase them from their refuge, only to see them blown out of the sky?
Why did I have to pick up their still-warm bodies and display them like a grinning necrophiliac?
I didn't want to anymore.
But it wasn't up to me.
And so I laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.
And I'm still laughing.
Because no one wants to see a dog cry.