I never knew why animals hated me. I’m not an ugly soul. When I go for groceries, I return my shopping cart. I sit down at restaurants, eat fastidiously, then tip an honest fifteen percent. On Sunday, I go to church and say ‘peace be with you’ to every neighbor. But so it was from a young age that this lifelong curse haunted me. Passing birds unfailingly stained my windshield. Neighbors had to put their dogs outside. I have never stroked the fur of a cat. Many years later, when Sabárrab grew to be the creature I remember him as, when my heart stopped with its crimson snarl under pale Summer moonlight, I wondered why that black pup was the exception.
I lived in Compson, Georgia. This was a railroad town on the fringes, one which was known for precious few things. But there is no such thing as boring places, and I found bright spots in what I came to appreciate as a special kind of hell. A local might point you to the Lyndon family’s corn maze, but I would show you the other side. Where …
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