Sunday Morning!

I remember the Sunday morning that I woke up to my dog passed away. Then, only twelve years old, I couldn’t understand the blank expression
in his eyes: dead yet so full of life. Picking up his stiff body with the shovel to reveal the form of maggots between his wet fur and concrete caused a vile to form.
“How could a body create maggots over night,” I ask?
My older sister rolled her eyes at me and said, “I don’t know stupid!”
My sister sure had a way with words. Then the dog was named “shorty”after her nickname. Maybe that is why she didn’t seem hurt about the lost. Maybe that’s why the dog seemed to have a puncture under his neck…
“Time for church,” she told me after patting her dirty hands on her apron as if she had just finished the dishes.
I knew something was up, so instead if going to my hut to put my bests on, I snuck around the shed to where the trail of dried up blood I noticed stopped near a stump.
There it was plain a day, the handle to the wood ax. I picked it up, walk wordless into the main hut where sister was changing her younger and before she saw it coming…

Should I finish?