Mercy’s Indifference

by Gary Clifton

“Cooper 6,” the radio interrupted Deputy Sheriff Lamar Rudolph’s reverie. After twenty years patrolling the rural countryside, he’d lost none of his admiration of the native beauty of spring creeping into the rolling hills of the Cooper County.

“Cooper 6,” he spoke into the microphone. “What’s up, Ruby?”

“Lamar, I just had a radio from Willard Ramsey. He had a call to put down a dog at Ben McCurdy’s place. He was so excited when he called in, but I think he said he’d run into a barricaded suspect with a shotgun.”

“Okay, Ruby. Ol’ Willard probably just needs a hand with another rabid dog. I’m on the way.” He flipped on the overhead reds on the old Dodge, U-turned, and accelerated south on County Road 226.

Big, fortyish, and a lifelong resident of Cooper County, Lamar had long since given up trying to anticipate the disjointed details of the lonely calls he responded to around the sparsely settled area.

Willard Ramsey was the Cooper County animal control officer by convenience of being a county commissioner’s son-in-law. Lamar knew him well, just as he knew every other living soul in the county. He’d often said if the county ever held a “dumber than dirt” contest, Willard was a sure winner.

He reached for the microphone. “Cooper 6 to Cooper 9.” Willard didn’t answer. Lamar goosed the Dodge to max. Ben McCurdy was a widower farmer who lived on his isolated farm with his grandson, David, age fourteen. Some months earlier, David, a troubled, learning disabled youth, had barricaded himself with a shotgun in an upstairs bedroom, threatening suicide. Lamar had managed to talk David off the ledge at the time, but the incident was fresh in his mind.

The Dodge scrunched down the McCurdy gravel driveway. The sight of Ben McCurdy pounding on the chicken house door and Willard hiding behind his county pickup surprised the usually unflappable deputy.

“What happened, Willard?” He pulled up the retainer strap on his revolver.

“Old man McCurdy called me out here to euthanize an old sick dog. I tol’ him on the phone we didn’t usually make house calls, but I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ so—”

“Ruby said ‘barricaded suspect,’ Willard. What the hell is this?”

Ben McCurdy limped toward them, in tears and nearly hysterical. “Lamar, David’s old dog, Champ, has a cancer in his mouth. I told the boy we had to put him down. When I brought out the shotgun, he panicked and grabbed the shotgun away from me. I called Willard to see if he had some kinda injection, so we didn’t have to shoot the dog, and —”

Willard interrupted. “Lamar, I only come out here, ’cuz Ben ’splained the situation. When I loaded up the needle—”

“Needle? Loaded with what, Willard?”

“Aw, that sodium pennabarb stuff.”

“Sodium pentobarbital? Willard, that’s part of what they use on death row. Takes several minutes to work used alone. Why the hell didn’t you haul the dog back to town and—?”

“Lamar, you got no idea how tough this job can be. When I got here, David had barricaded himself in the chicken house and was pointin’ the shotgun outta that screened winder there. When David said he wanted to give the dog the shot hisself, I handed the needle in through the wire. Told him to take care, ’cuz they was enough poison in that needle to kill three dogs”

“You handed a barricaded kid a needle loaded with sodium pentobarbital, for God’s sake?”

“He pointed that big ol’ shotgun at me. I give that needle right up. Called Ruby to send help.”

“Dammit, Willard, have you tried to talk with the kid?”

Lamar ran to the chicken house and shouldered through the door. Willard and McCurdy followed. The shotgun lay in the dust beside an old dog and David McCurdy. The needle was protruding from the boy’s left arm David was alive and breathing with labor. The dog was wailing in agony.

“Willard,” Lamar barked, “get out there and call Ruby. Get an ambulance down here, quick.”

Willard stumbled away. McCurdy sat in the dust, cradling his grandson in his arms. “David, my God, David!” he sobbed.

Lamar yanked the needle free. It was nearly empty. Good God, how much had David given himself? How much for the dog? The syringe appeared nearly empty. Certainly enough to kill both. Then David gasped, shuddered, and died, his eyes fixed on eternity. The dog continued to breathe, twisting in pain. He’d apparently gotten the lesser dose, and the drug was slowly torturing his heart until it gave out.

Willard walked back in. “I got an ambulance comin’, Lamar.”

Lamar studied the sick old dog, writhing in tormented suffering in the dirt. He hesitated, then drew his revolver and shot the suffering animal in the top of his head. He turned back to Willard, who was holding his ears in pain from the gunshot in close quarters.

“Lamar, you didn’t have to crank off a round inside like that.”

“You idiot, I oughta shoot your ass, too. You killed that boy sure as I just had to put the old dog out of his suffering.” Lamar swallowed hard, trying not to vomit. He sat down in the dirt and offal of the chicken house beside the sobbing McCurdy, who was still clutching his dead grandson.

The sound of an approaching siren wafted in on the crisp air. “Ambulance comin’ up the drive, Lamar,” Willard said from the doorway.

“Willard, get the hell out of here.” Lamar placed a hand gently on old man McCurdy’s shoulder and began to cry.