I was not always evil. No. I used to be a good girl. I obeyed my Mother's orders. I did all the tricks my Masters' taught me. I got along with my sibling. I listened to Father's lectures with rapt attention. So where did it all go wrong? Well, I'm about to tell you.
"I hate you!" My Master screamed at me. My eyes felt moist. The carpet was rough underneath my paws. The whip had left a long streak of bleeding skin in it's wake. "Do the trick, dog!"
I whined, pawing the ground. I had done a flip for her. I had been a good dog. But I had failed to do a double flip. That was all that mattered. My heart felt like it would burst. I had tried many times. A puddle of blood now lay on the floor next to my limp body.
My mother shook her head slowly at me. I didn't understand. What had I done wrong? I whined once more, and she turned her back on me. Blood swelled up in my eyes as the child Master struck me in the eye socket over my eye with her pen. I could no longer see in one eye, so I closed it. It quickly sealed shut, glued by blood.
This was abuse. My father had taught me that word. 'Abuse it the way you get yourself killed.' He would tell us. He taught us how to growl warningly without feeling wrath of the whip. I tried, yet it did nothing. Other than a slap in the face with a whip.
"Shut up!" The child Master yelled at me. Oh, how I hated him at that moment. My father looked at me, and my siblings watched from under a dresser. We were only eight months old. The child was now resorting to tracing my lips with a knife. "Stupid Beagle." He muttered at me.
That was the last straw for mother. She started barking at the child, in a stalking position. My father stayed out of it, until the knife was thrown deep into my mother's skull. Then he attacked. My siblings started coming out, tail drooping, to help. Yet my father send them away. To run. To hide. To escape. And then, my father lunged for the child's throat.
"Stop!" The child's cry ended in a gurgle as it's life force slowly drained away. My father sniffed once, before turning to my mother. She was laying on the floor. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing. She was dead. My father told us to run with a snort, and we did. We ran. The Masters took my father to the vet, where we learned he was euthanized for dangerous behavior. My siblings were sold instantly. I was kept. And then I knew my life was out for me.
About the time I was ten months, my Masters decided that I was ready to be spayed. However, seeing as it was 1931, they were tight on money. So they decided to take the knife - The one my mother was murdered with - and chop off the whole area themselves instead. It hurt badly. The pain was unendurable. Yet each time I whined, my head would be pressed deeply against the ground. This wrenched my neck, leaving it hopeless for me to move.....
-To be continued-
