I think the bastards should die. And I think the bastards should live. Those are my comprehensive thoughts about war and the Other Side.

Listen. Let’s say you and I were driving somewhere, maybe to see my mother or camp or go shopping. You are driving. We are in a sharp curve, and a dog runs out in the middle of the road. I scream, “look out,” and you do and then you swerve to avoid hitting it. We crash into a tree. I die, you and the dog live. You are banged up. The dog is fine. The dog is not cute. The dog trots off, unphased. You were in a situation in which you had to react immediately, and you did what most people would do. Or what I/we would hope most people would do. What happens is I die and then you start second-guessing yourself. Not only that, but you’re overcome by the guilt that you and the ugly dog lived while a nice person (me) died. But you go beyond that because you are in such pain. You blame yourself, but then you begin to criticize all the people who ever liked dogs to begin with. All the fanatics who ever placed any value on dogs’ lives or expect others to. All those people are, in part, responsible for this tragedy and how you reacted.

End scene. Now listen. People are scarred by grief. Torture comes in many forms, and I’m most familiar with the self-inflicted kind. The selfish kind. Still, swerving to avoid the dog was the noble thing, no matter what the results were, no matter what the rules of war were, no matter what the “liberal” media says or does.

So, anyway, what I’m saying is this. We should die, and the dogs should live. But also, the dogs should die and we should live. We’re just all trying to live with what we can live with.

So I suppose I’m back to being a bleeding heart.

Even if you question yourself, my death, and the version of me that values the life of dogs.

I don’t question you. I know.

You did the right thing.