Sad Benjamin

In light of the death stories we talked about in class yesterday, I would like to share my most traumatic death experience.

The greatest affection that has been ripped away from me was attached to a fictional dog. His name was Old Yeller.

Despite vowing to never read the story again so as to avoid reliving that experience, the vivid details that were etched into that ten year old mind have stuck with me ever since that fateful day.

I used to read every good fictional story available to a young, blossoming elementary student. From Where The Red Fern Grows to the Hardy Boys, I read a lot, to say the least.

Enter: Old Yeller. 

I loved the story. I grew to love the dog. And then the author gored him. 

I was laying in my parent's bed, reading, as I love to do. After Old Yeller's abdomen was ripped open, the tears started flowing. But I kept reading. I held onto hope that he would survive. Then my mom came in the room, saw me in my saddened state and suggested I come downstairs. I complied and cooled down. 

But of course I had to go back to the story. So I did. And Old Yeller was shot. 

Young Ben was beyond crushed.