Sean of the South: Blind Love
By Sean Dietrich She was trash. At least that’s how she was treated. She was found wandering a rural Mississippi highway. Beneath the stars. It was a wonder the girl hadn’t been hit. This was a busy highway. The kind with transfer trucks. The dog was walking in the center of the road. On the yellow line. Clearly there was something wrong with her. Animals don’t walk open highways. But the black-and-tan dog was moving by feel. Because she is blind. All she knew was that she liked open highway because the surface was smooth, and there were no obstructions. And when you’re blind, no obstructions is a good thing. She was a skeleton. Every rib visible. Every spinal disc showed. There were scars all over her, as though she’d been involved in a host of dog fights. A scar on her face. A scar on her chest. One behind her ear. On her side. Another on her right forelimb. Probably, she had been caged with other hunting dogs. The dogs were probably mistreated and hungry. Hunger makes dogs mean. Nobody knows how the blindness happened. But it didn’t take a rocket engineer to figure it out. “Someone hit this animal with a blunt object,” the veterinarian later said, choking back tears. “Someone beat this poor dog. Maybe with the butt of a rifle. Maybe with rebar.” People say that dogs use smell above all other senses. That’s a lie. A dog doesn’t use her sense of smell to...
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