I was going to write about my nickname, Luger, but this post ended up being about killing dogs.

In a previous post, I discussed how I came to possess the nickname "Handgun Robert". That composition prompted me to recall that another of my nicknames was handgun related, too. My early life growing up, until about age ten or so, I was called "Luger" by everyone who knew me. A Luger is a type of 9mm pistol, commonly depicted in the hands of Nazis in World War II films. I was given the name by my family (it was actually coined by my brother) to maintain my parents tradition of providing my siblings and I with German nicknames and in response to an unfortunate (for my family) habit I had during diaper changes as an infant (I peed as soon as the diaper came off, drenching whichever caregiver was unlucky that day). These names share mere ironic coincidence and do not reveal some fundamental link between myself and firearms. Still, I find the connection curious.

Let me begin by saying that I am firearm friendly, having hunted for food with my rifles and attempted regular practice with my pistol so as to remain proficient in case of need. I have owned several different types of guns and rifles and currently own a 9mm pistol, a .30-06 caliber rifle, and a .22 caliber rifle. I desire a 12 gauge shotgun and a .357 cal. revolver, as well. I am comfortable with killing for food or for personal protection, and I feel I could even shoot and kill a person if it was necessary. Having said that, I do not relish death and believe all life is too precious to squander senselessly. Other than killing rabbits with my "twenty-two" and several deer with my "ought-six", I have only had to use a firearm twice to kill a living creature.

The first time was when my dog, Bodhi, was hit by a Jeep Cherokee in front of my house in Hartford, TN. He had a bad habit of chasing cars, of which I could not break him; and, one day, he caught one. It was gruesome to behold as the whole right side of his body was shattered. He was struggling to stand on crushed legs and screaming in pain. He was in increasingly severe respiratory distress and was obviously mortally wounded, but somehow still alive despite the extreme injuries. I carried him out of the road and held him, trying in vain to soothe his terrible misery. I shouted to a friend who was there to retrieve my pistol from my bedroom. He raced to comply and quickly returned.

It wasn't easy to shoot Bo in the head like that, but it would have been unthinkable to let him continue to die slowly and painfully. I cried, as did my friend, who politely stepped away while I dealt with my emotions. Later, when I called my estranged wife to disclose Bo's demise, the emotions welled up again, and also anger at her for her recriminations toward me over the incident.

The second thing I killed with this pistol was also a dog, another dog who trusted me (as much as he trusted anyone) but that had to be killed. For a time, I lived in a house high up on a beautiful mountain close to Newport, TN, but still remote. I lived at the apex of a "loop road" on a couple of acres of land. My nearest neighbor had a trailer about two hundred yards away and my next closest lived in a house about three hundred yards in the other direction. This next closest neighbor, Erwin, was kind of a friend and kind of a business associate. He moved in on the occasion of his parole from federal prison (due to drug and gun convictions) and worked for the owners of a car lot I did business management and repossession work for in my spare time from the rafting company. He was quite a character, a racist redneck with anger and self-control issues, with whom I had several adventures.

Erwin soon got a young Pit-Bull, which he chained up in his yard and began to try to make into a vicious guard dog. Part of his technique apparently involved forgetting to feed or water this dog and neglecting it in many other ways also. I couldn't abide this kind of malice, however; and fed the dog whenever I could and tried to spend a little time with him. Still the dog got skinnier and meaner by the day, until, one day, he was thin enough to slip the chain that bound him.

The dog had been driven crazy by the mistreatment he had suffered and wouldn't be caught by anyone. He raided the garbage cans of everyone in the neighborhood, creating hassle and mess for several weeks all along our little road. Worse still, the dog was scared of people yet aggressive toward them. He would try to silently attack from behind and bite anyone who came onto mine or Erwin's property, forcing me to escort my guests to and from the house by walking immediately behind them. The day came when he attacked my other neighbor's grandchild though, biting her and leaving a bloody and painful, if not serious, wound. This was too much and this neighbor came to me very angry and upset. I took the matter to Erwin who could see that this dog was likely to hurt someone badly if not dealt with. It was something I had discussed with him a few days previously, as well.

In that mountain community, things like animal control were generally dealt with privately although the city of Newport did have a Humane Society. Still, we didn't live in Newport and people generally solved their own problems, so Erwin asked if I had a gun. I retrieved it and walked out back, where the dog was racing around through the woods behind my house and barking shrilly at Erwin, whom it hated. He was a pretty quick little thing but I killed him with my first shot which got him right through his chest. I put another round in his brain to make sure he didn't suffer any more and then drank a beer with both my neighbors while we took turns digging the grave.

These violent yet merciful acts do not seem to me to indicate any predilection for gun play or any excessively sociopathic tendencies, but you may draw your own conclusions. Certainly my firearm related monikers cannot be attributed to them, but perhaps my analysis is flawed in this case.