The vet said that there was nothing that could have been done. Nothing at all. Accidents were bound to happen, and when they do, we all wonder what kind of irrevocable sin we had committed to deserve it. The truth is, no matter what kind of person you are, luck shows no prejudice. Maybe that’s why I like him. He fondles with the lives of anyone and everyone with no preconception.
The van had run him over good, they told me, and good old father had made it a point to sue the driver and the corporation for every bit of credit he could. He gave most of it to me too. Said it belonged to me. As if I deserved it. Sure, I’d raised him quite well, and he loved me the most (he was my pick after all) but the family loved him. And I was pretty much surprised to see that they shed very few tears for him. Even mother, who had treated him like her own baby and who had spoiled him like her own grandson, cried but for a few days. Yes, they did all mourn for him, but deep down inside, I knew that they would’ve mourned him much more, had he not been a beast.
Rocky was his name, and he was a Border Collie. Border collies are supposed to be the most intelligent of dogs, except for the ones those people at dad’s company breed, if you could really call them dogs. The animals they bred there, were more wolf and less dog, and were as intelligent as fully grown orang-utans. But they couldn’t be loved. They were ice cold soul less creatures, with no purpose but to hunt. And these dogs were all part of the “Woof” project, which my father had named so fondly named…and ran.
The project was no secret. It was quite known to the general public, and the newspapers ran a tiny report of it every other month or so. Sure, it was no front page hit, but I’ve noticed many people talk of it, given the general popularity of dogs as great pets.
Yes, I have strayed quite a bit far from the subject on hand, but I actually meant to. Rocky is long gone, and nothing can be done. But this particular topic, this project, is actually the reason why I write this tale. I call it a tale not because most people don’t believe the truth, but because the truth is so incorrigible that it’s better left as a work of fiction. This story isn’t about me, and although it does concern my father a lot, it's not his tale either. This is the story of a boy. A boy, who could brought back the dormant love of an experimental beast, and thereby caused the failure of the experiment, but also the revival of utopia.