It all started when my owner, John Phillips, and I were going on another normal, daily hunting trip. We were out killing delicious birds. Hunting is my favorite thing to do. I would not trade it for the world. I love the flavor of fresh bird.
One thing I am unsure of is why my name is Rusty. My young legs most certainly are not rusty. I am the fastest running dog around here. I can run a mile in seven minutes. Once a bird is shot, I am gone in a heartbeat while John just sits there being lazy and waits for me to bring him back my bird. I think John should do some kind of work rather just shooting a brainless gun, so usually I make him play some tug-of-war with the bird to earn it. John normally becomes furious about it, but I find it rather hilarious. I am still young, fifteen months to be exact. I should be able to have some fun while I am still young, right?
John owns a twelve-gauge shotgun that he says he has had for most of his life. He loves that unintelligent gun; he probably even loves it more than me. That is why I did it. I had no choice. I had to shoot him with his own gun right in the legs. I do feel somewhat sorry about it, but I wanted him to feel the pain that the gun gives me every day.
I should start calling him Rusty. His old rusty legs do not work so well anymore. Plus, he is forty-five years old. The funny thing is, John still loves and admires me as much as he always has. He did not even blame me for getting shot. He blamed himself. I wish he knew I shot him on purpose. The only good outcome of this was not getting into trouble and him getting rid of that pitiful gun.
I sadly overheard him today though. He is buying a new, better gun. The gun is larger and shoots bullets farther. I will never be good enough for John. That is why this dog has retired and will never hunt another bird again for that man.