A dog that cannot bark

I remember the day I found him crawling silently through the sand. He had wandered far from the tree under which his mother had left him and his siblings. We children divided the spoils among ourselves; each of us took a puppy, and I got this one. And honestly... I was happy.

A few days later, I discovered that my dog could not bark. I thought it might be because he was still very young, but even when he grew older, he still could not bark.

My older brother used to mock me for it and compare my dog to his. My brother had been with us in that same “crime,” and his dog had grown strong, with its ears and tail always held high. It would easily overpower my skinny, hollow-bellied dog, who lacked the most important thing a dog should have, according to my brother: the ability to bark.

Yet I loved my dog dearly. I was always playing with him, saving part of my food for him and feeding it to him so that he might grow stronger. But he never changed; he always remained the same.

One day, we left early for the fields. Our animal pen was near them. As we approached, we noticed that we could not hear the usual noise of the animals. My brother grew worried, and his concern deepened when he saw their tracks outside the gate.

We opened the door of the pen and found no animals inside.

Panic seized us, especially when my brother found his black dog lying beside the wall of the pen, a bullet through its head. My own dog was at the far edge of the field, panting, staring fixedly at us.

I saw my brother’s face change color, reddening with rage. He looked at my dog with a savage glare and ran toward him.

My dog did not move.

I wished he would run. I wished he would escape.

But he did not.

When I caught up with my brother, I saw my dog swaying from side to side before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

I saw the blood on my brother’s hand, on his sickle, and on my dog’s neck.

And I heard the sentence that I remember every time I hear dogs barking:

“A dog that cannot bark is of no use.”