The Dog Next Door

佚名/Anonymous

在我大约13岁时，我回到了宾夕法尼亚州的老家——印第安纳，养了只叫鲍恩斯的狗。那是只身份不明的流浪狗。一天放学后，他就跟我回了家。鲍恩斯似乎是那种硬毛杂种猎犬，只是皮毛是橘黄色。我们成了亲密的伙伴，我进林子找慈姑，他就在我身旁嬉戏；我做飞机模型，他就倒在我脚边打呼噜。我太喜欢他了。

一年暮夏，我去双舔溪参加童子军营。等我回家时，鲍恩斯却没有上前迎接我。我问母亲他去哪里了，她温柔地把我带进屋内，“吉姆，很遗憾，鲍恩斯不在了。”“跑了吗？”“不，孩子，他死了。”我简直无法相信。“出了什么事？”我哽咽着问。“他被咬死了。”“怎么被咬死的？”母亲望了望父亲。父亲清了清嗓子说道：“吉姆，博吉扯断了链子，跑过来咬死了他。”我顿时呆住了。博吉是邻居家的一只英国叭喇狗，平常总是套着链子，被拴在他们家后院的约100英尺长的铁丝栏杆上。

我悲愤交加，当晚彻夜未眠。第二天早上，我跑去看那只叭喇狗，希望能发现他那布满斑点的身上至少有一个又深又长的伤口。可是除了那只强壮的恶犬被拴在一条比原先更粗的链子上，我什么也没发现。每当看到可怜的鲍恩斯那座空****的狗屋，那再也用不上的毯子、食盆时，我就不禁怒火冲天，恨透了那只恶犬，因为他夺走了我最好的朋友。

终于有一天早上，我翻了壁橱，找到了那只口径22毫米的雷明顿猎枪，那是爸爸在去年圣诞节送我的。走进我们家后院，我爬上苹果树，站在高高的树干上，我看到博吉正在铁丝围栏边上闲逛。我透过瞄准器把枪口对准他，可是每次瞄准，准备击中他时，树叶就挡住了我的视线。

突然，一声轻微短促的惊叫从树下传来，“吉姆，你在树上干什么呢？”没等我答话，妈妈“砰”的一声关上了纱门，我知道她肯定在给五金店的爸爸打电话。几分钟后，家里的福特汽车开进车道。爸爸从车里出来，直奔苹果树。“吉姆，下来。”他轻声说道。我不得不合上保险栓，跳到被炎夏毒日晒得发焦的草地上。

第二天早上，爸爸对我说：“吉姆，放学到铺子来一趟。”他比我自己更了解我。

那天下午我懒懒地进了市区，到了爸爸的五金店，心想，他肯定要我擦玻璃或是干其他活。爸爸从柜台后面出来，带我进了储藏室。我们慢慢地绕过一桶桶钉子，一捆捆浇花水管和丝网，来到一个角落。我的死敌博吉就在那里，缩成一团儿，被拴在一根柱子上。“叭喇狗在这里，”爸爸说道，“如果你还想干掉他，这是最简单的办法。”他把一只口径22毫米的短筒猎枪递给我。我疑惑地望了他一眼。他点了点头。

我拿起枪，把它举上肩，用黑色枪筒向下瞄准。博吉用那双棕色眼睛看着我，开心地喘着粗气，张开那张长着獠牙的嘴，吐出粉红的舌头。就在扣动扳机的一刹那，我思绪万千。爸爸静静地在旁边站着，而我的心却如波浪般翻滚。昔日爸爸的教诲浮上心头——我们要善待无助的生命，要光明磊落地做人，要明辨是非。我想起妈妈最心爱的瓷碗被我打碎后，她还是那样爱我。

猎枪突然变得沉重起来，而眼前的目标也变得模糊不清。我把手中的枪放下，抬起头，无奈地看着爸爸。他笑了笑，然后抓住我的肩膀，缓缓地说道：“我理解你，儿子。”直到这时，我才意识到他从未想过我会扣动扳机。他以一种明智、深刻的方式让我自己做出决定。直到现在，我都从未搞清那天下午爸爸是怎么让博吉出现在五金店的，但我知道他相信我会做出正确的选择。

放下枪，我感到轻松无比。我和爸爸跪在地上，给博吉松绑。博吉欢快地在我们父子身边扭动着身体，短短的尾巴疯狂地舞动着。

那天晚上，我睡了几天来的第一个好觉。第二天早上，跳下后院的台阶时，我看见了隔壁的博吉，停了下来。爸爸抚摸着我的头发，说道：“儿子，看来你已经宽恕了他。”

我飞奔到学校。我发现宽恕真的令人精神焕发。

When I was about thirteen years old， back home in Indiana， Pennsylvania， I had a dog named Bounce. He was just a street dog of indeterminate parentage who had followed me home from school one day. Kind of Airedaleish but of an orange color， Bounce became my close companion. He'd frolic alongside me when I'd go into the woods to hunt arrowheads and snore at my feet when I'd build a model airplane. I loved that dog.

Late one summer I had been away to a Boy Scout camp at Two Lick Creek， and when I got home Bounce wasn't there to greet me. When I asked Mother about him， she gently took me inside. "I'm so sorry， Jim， but Bounce is gone." "Did he run away？" "No， son， he's dead." I couldn't believe it. "What happened？" I choked. "He was killed." "How？" Mom looked over to my father. He cleared his throat. "Well， Jim，" he said， "Bogy broke his chain， came over and killed Bounce." I was aghast. Bogy was the next-door neighbors' English bulldog. Normally he was linked by a chain to a wire that stretched about 100 feet across their backyard.

I was grief-stricken and angry. That night I tossed and turned. The next morning I stepped out to look at the bulldog， hoping to see at least a gash in its speckled hide. But no， there on a heavier chain stood the barrel-chested villain. Every time I saw poor Bounce's empty house， his forlorn blanket， his food dish， I seethed with hatred for the animal that had taken my best friend.

Finally one morning I reached into my closet and pulled out the 22-coliber Remington rifle which Dad had given me the past Christmas. I stepped out into our backyard and climbed up into the apple tree. Perched in its upper limbs， I could see the bulldog as he traipsed up and down the length of his wire. With the rifle I followed him in the sights. But every time I got a bead on him， tree foliage got in the way.

Suddenly a gasp sounded from below. "Jim， what are you doing up there？" Mom didn't wait for an answer. Our screen door slammed and I could tell she was on the phone with my father at his hardware store. In a few minutes our Ford chattered into the driveway. Dad climbed out and came over to the apple tree. "Come down， Jim，" he said gently. Reluctantly， I put the safety on and let myself down onto the summer-seared grass.

The next morning， Dad， who knew me better than I knew myself， said， "Jim， after you finish school today， I want you to come to the store."

That afternoon I trudged downtown to Dad's hardware store， figuring he wanted the windows washed or something. He stepped out from behind the counter and led me back to the stockroom. We edged past kegs of nails， coils of garden hose and rolls of screen wire over to a corner. There squatted my hated nemesis， Bogy， tied to a post. "Now here's the bulldog，" Dad said. "This is the easy way to kill him if you still feel that way." He handed me a short-barreled. 22-caliber rifle. I glanced at him questioningly. He nodded.

I took the gun， lifted it to my shoulder and sighted down the black barrel. Bogy， brown eyes regarding me， panted happily， pink tongue peeking from tusked jaws. As I began to squeeze the trigger， a thousand thoughts flashed through my mind while Dad stood silently by. But my mind wasn't silent； all of Dad's teaching about our responsibility to defenseless creatures， fair play， right and wrong， welled within me. I thought of Mom loving me after I broke her favorite china serving bowl.

Suddenly the rifle weighed a ton and the sight wavered in my vision. I lowered it and looked up at Dad helplessly. A quiet smile crossed his face and he clasped my shoulder. "I know， son，" he said gently. I realized then： He had never expected me to pull that trigger. In his wise， deep way he let me face my decision on my own. I never did learn how Dad managed to arrange Bogy's presence that afternoon， but I know he had trusted me to make the right choice.

A tremendous relief overwhelmed me as I put down the gun. I knelt down with Dad and helped untie Bogy， who wriggled against us happily， his stub tail wiggling furiously.

That night I slept well for the first time in days. The next morning as I leaped down the back steps， I saw Bogy next door and stopped. Dad ruffled my hair. "Seems you've forgiven him， son."

I raced off to school. Forgiveness， I found， could be exhilarating.