[ WP ] Write from the perspective of a dog who thinks he is going to the park but is actually going to be euthanized .

These days Max mainly restricted himself to his old spot in front of the TV, between the arm-chair and the sofa, where he watched college football with Doug, barking whenever Doug cheered. Only the occasional visit to the vet disturbed his lazy, pleasant, Rip Van Winkle routine – but even those visits had stopped as of late. 
 
 Although he no longer seemed to have any energy at all for reasons he couldn ’ t quite understand, and he usually only picked at his food bowl ( he seemed to vomit anytime he had anything more ), a wave of excitement possessed him as he saw Doug standing in the doorway, leash in one hand, shotgun in the other. 
 
 He had not gone out hunting with Doug in years, but he had never felt more alive, more true to his own inner nature, than when he was out in the woods with Doug. He understood they were hunting, and he would have done anything to protect his owner. He never loved Doug more than in those moments. He wanted nothing more than to see the satisfaction in Doug ’ s face as he ran back to him, a bird hanging from his mouth. 
 
 Max ’ s old, arthritic limbs would not be able to fire the way they had all those years ago, but he would try, enthusiastic as ever, to play his role in the kill. He understood, on some intuitive, primal level, that each dog served his own purpose in the pack. He and Doug made up their own pack, and he and his old partner would go out for one final midnight ride. His bark was weaker, less fierce than it had once been, but in that moment he felt like a puppy, yipping and yelling as he ran over. 
 
 Doug took him out in the pickup truck. They drove down the little gravel road to the barn on the back end of the property. Max stuck his face out the window, slobbering all over the seat. Doug was blasting the music so loud – Led Zeppelin playing on the classic rock station – that the bass shook the whole frame of the car. 
 
 They stopped and for the first time Max recognized that Doug was upset. He could hear it in the voice, even if he would never understand the words. 
 
 “ Well, here we are, Max. I tried to drive as slow as I could, but here we are. ” 
 
 Doug took out a pint of Jim Beam from with his vest. It only had a shots ’ worth of dark, amber liquid left. He finished the rest in a few quick gulps. 
 
 “ Remember that time when my parents were staying over for Easter and you got up real early in the morning and made a goddamned mess of everything. You ate half a goddamned chocolate rabbit. We all thought you were gon na die, but then you puked all over the floor, looking up and grinning at us like an idiot? ” 
 
 Max did remember in his own way, if he had known what Doug was talking about it. 
 
 “ Or the time that got into a fight on your first day of puppy-school and got permanently banned from the place? They said you were a dangerous animal… Ha! What a joke! I ’ ve never met a sweeter dog in my life. You ’ re a good boy, Max. Always were. ” 
 
 Max looked up to his owner, hearing his name. It felt good to be outside. The air was cold and crisp in his lungs, the leaves crackling beneath his feet. He looked to the right, hearing a stick snap. 
 
 As Max looked away, Doug lowered the shotgun. He supposed here was as good a place as any and if he didn ’ t do then he didn ’ t think would ever manage it. 
 
 A lone shot rolled through the woods, echoing through the trees, before trailing off into nothing. 

