“Go on. Spit it out,” said Pickles.
“Well, ya see, Grandpa and I were out in the barn one afternoon, when Pimples came running in. Grandpa growled that he was sick to death of rats eating the grain, and before I could stop him, he pulled out his shot gun and blew him away.”
The girls gasped. Tears began pouring down their cheeks. “Oh, poor little Pimples,” cried Piper. “I loved that little chihuahua.”
“I know he looked like a little rat, but how could Grandpa shoot him?” cried Pickles.
“Well, Emma and I think they both might have the early stages of Dementia,” replied the farmer.
“You mean their losing their minds?” asked Pickles.
“That would explain our coversation with Grandma,” said Piper.
Farmer McFadden pulled into the gravel drive that lead to his farm. “I’ll drive you girls to your grandparents after supper. If it makes you feel any better, I gathered him up in my shirt, and gave him a proper burial in our family pet cemetary.”
It did help. Both girls had pictured the worst – Grandpa tossing Pimples’ little body in the field for the Turkey Vultures to feed on. “Thanks, Farmer Mac,”