Hi there, this is a very short story I wrote some time ago. It was very touching for me and I wanted to share it. Any comment, critique, suggestion, etc. is more than welcomed.

The Last Mischief

The sun was hidden in the middle of a vast sea of white clouds, but its rays bathed the farm as they escaped through small holes across the cotton-like clouds. The farmer stared at the sky from his wooden porch, from the chair that his grandfather had carved with his own bare hands. The farmer could not stop a sight from escaping his lips as he lowered his gaze and stared at the barren lands that once were the envy of the whole region. The farmer was as withered as the lands. His face, once tanned and strong, had transformed into the face of a tired man. Wrinkles had plagued his visage prematurely, and his ruffled hazel hair had started to fall. But probably the change that strung the most was in his eyes. His eyes used to have a sparkle, a glitter of joy. But the sparkle was gone, replaced by a cloak of darkness, and the joy was but a faint memory. The scarecrow of man stood up, his clothes were old, his red shirt had become pale showing all the use over the years. On his right hand he held his wrinkled hat, which he placed over his head as soon as he descended from the porch and into the lands. On the other hand, his sandy hand was tightly wrapped around the cannon of a rifle. It was not only a riffle, it was his riffle, the one he used to shoot his first deer and the one he had used to defend the lands when thieves had entered. That was when there was something to defend. The farmer stood there, on the moist grass, just feeling the warm breeze. The haunting words of his grandfather suddenly pierced into his thoughts. "Remember Jeremy", the old man had said to him when he was only five or six years old, "These lands have belonged to our family for generations. They fought against dry seasons, floods, robbers, fires, and more catastrophes than I can remember. But even in the darkest of times, they always get through." Then, the old man would laugh and gulp down about half of the bottle of cheap brandy he used to carry everywhere.

"But he was wrong." The farmer mused to himself staring across the place. The lands had never seen a crisis like this one; the whole country had never seen a crisis like this one. The farmer could swear he heard his grandfather´s voice in the wind, scolding him. The farmer began to walk, his boots making a scratching sound each time he walked through the soil where only few patches of green remained. He stared down to the ground, and he could not look up. Any part of the farm would evoke memories. Memories, too sweet, that would only make his present worse. He heard some birds singing merry tunes, the same birds that used to come in the morning and swallow the maggots in the ground. But now even they went hungry. The man only looked up when he arrived to the entrance of the barn. The old barn seemed to be taken out of a movie, all built in wood that ages ago shone with red paint. He turned around.

"Mischief!" He called, placing his free hand next to his mouth.

Nothing.

"Mischief!" He called louder, wishing with all his might that the female dog had ran away. But to his dismay, a dog came running towards him. She was a Dalmatian mix. Her white fur was filled with black speckles and mud stains. She was a beautiful dog, even now that her ribcage protruded from her body and she grew weaker by the day. The farmer smiled as the female Dalmatian ran, her pink tongue sticking out and her white tail moving from side to side. She had an open wound in the back of her neck, a gash she had earned after running into a wired fence. The wound was infected by now and probably causing a lot of pain, but nothing in the dog would make anyone believe that. Her eyes scintillated and she ran as fast as she could, leaving a trace of dust behind her. The farmer could not help to remember the day he had bought the Dalmatian pup. It was around Christmas, the old family hound had passed away more than year ago, and the farm needed a new dog. Both of his daughters adored Mr. Johnson´s dog, Sasha a Dalmatian. And when Sasha´s litter was born, the farmer did not hesitate to go and buy one of the pups. It was one of the happiest Christmas he could remember, his daughters were so thrilled with the pup they wouldn't leave her alone even a second. And the pup itself was probably the most hyperactive dog he had ever seen. Her actions soon earned her her name. She nibbled every pair of shoes she could find, she was forbidden to enter the house after using it as a bathroom countless times, and somehow she managed to always end up full of dirt. It was his older daughter, Danielle, who suggested the name Mischief, which the farmer found perfectly fitting. The Dalmatian arrived next to the farmer and almost threw herself at him, wagging her tail as she placed her upper legs on the farmer´s own legs.

"There you are gorgeous!" The farmer smiled patting the dog´s head, feeling the soft pelt between his fingers. He was glad his daughters were at school now, or else he would not be able to fulfill his task.

"C´mon girl" He smiled as they walked towards the entrance of the barn. The place was empty now, but it used to house all sorts of stock. A horse, pigs, cows and chickens, which Mischief loved to chase.

"Ok girl" The farmer´s voice was faint now. "Come here."

He walked to the other end of the barn and the dog followed.

"Sit," he commanded and the Dalmatian was soon seated on the hay.

"What a good girl", the farmer said forcing a smile. "Stay there"

He then walked a little bit further as Mischief stared at him, still in her place. The farmer was suddenly shaking, and sweat dripped from his forehead and back. He grabbed his riffle tighter. He raised the gun and placed it next to his face. There was knot in his throat as he looked at the dog who still wagged her tail from side to side. He was shaking. The Dalmatian's bright eyes locked into his.

"There will be no more pain girl", he said. His usually raspy voice was shattered. "There will be no more hunger girl, I promise."

He closed one eye. His aim was decreased by the tears welling in his open eye. He gulped and placed his sweaty finger around the trigger, which felt as cold as ever.

"I promise.", he whispered.

A shot reverberated across the lands, making the singing birds fly away and replacing the smell of pine trees with the one of gun powder. The farmer tossed the riffle at a side. He walked clumsily towards the corpse lying on the hay. His feet did not lift from the floor, as if he wore iron shackles around his ankles. He stared at the body in horror as he placed his back against the wooden wall of the barn. He allowed himself to slide slowly, until he reached the ground. Carefully he grabbed the warm corpse, and he held it in his arms with the delicacy he used to carry his daughters. The farmer embraced Mischief's limp body, carefully rocking back and forth. The tears that he had held prisoners for so long took advantage of the moment and sneaked out in streams. He sobbed like a little boy, as he looked at the body, at her closed eyes and her blood stained white fur. Back and forth, back and forth, clenching to the dog's body. That day, the last little piece of hope and sincere joy that was left in his farm was gone. And with it he could feel his own hope die forever, along with the stolen innocence of his daughters. All vanished in the breeze, all murdered with the movement of a finger.