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By Root 545 0

to a friend of theirs, Tslil Weintraub, but ever since the Weintraubs went abroad he belonged to nobody. He just lived on scraps. The dog was lying on his side behind the cans, coughing like someone who smokes too much. They gave him a medical examination, and Yaniv said, "He's going to die soon, he's got edema." Then they forced his mouth open and made him swallow a spoonful of a medicine invented by Ninja Marmelstein: muddy water from the pond mixed with a little sand and leaves and a little powdery cement and some aspirin from Yaniv's mother. Then they decided to carry him down to the wadi in a blanket and do the sacrifice of Isaac with him as they learned in Bible. It was Ronen's idea, and he even ran home and got a bread knife. All the way to the wadi this Winston lay quietly in the blanket. Actually he seemed happy, wagging his tail gratefully. Maybe he thought they were taking him to the vet. Anyone who came close to him got a lick on his face or his hands. In the wadi they collected stones and built an altar, and they put the unresisting dog on it. He looked at them all with a kind of curiosity, like a baby, trustingly, as though he was sure he was among loving friends, or as if he understood the game and was glad to be playing. His wounds were revolting, but his face was cute, with brown eyes that showed sense and feeling. "There's this thing sometimes—isn't that right, Fima?—when you look at an animal and you think it can remember things that human beings have forgotten. Or at least it looks like it." Anyway, he was a dirty, rather irritating dog, covered with fleas and ticks, always fawning on everyone; he loved to put his head on your knees and drool.

Dimi's idea was to pick some greenery and flowers and decorate the altar. He even arranged a little wreath for Winston's head, as they do in nursery school when it's somebody's birthday. They tied his arms and legs together firmly, and even so he didn't stop fawning and being glad and wagging his tail all the time, as though he was happy to be the center of attention. Anyone who wasn't careful got a lick. Then they drew lots: Ninja Marmelstein had to chant the prayers, Ronen had to dig the grave, and he, Dimi, got the job of killing him. At first he tried to get out of it—he had the excuse that his sight wasn't too good—but they made fun of him, and got angry, and said a draw is a draw, stop being such a bleeding heart. So he had no choice. Only it wouldn't work. The knife was shaking in his hand and the dog kept moving all the time. Instead of cutting the throat, he cut off half an ear. The dog went mad and started to cry like a baby and bit the air. Dimi had to cut again, quickly, to stop the howling. But this time instead of the throat the knife went into something soft near the belly, because Winston wriggled and squealed and bled a lot. Yaniv said, So what? It's not so terrible; its only a smelly old Arab dog. And Ninja said, And he's got edema; he's going to die anyway. The third time Dimi struck with all his might, but he hit a rock and the knife broke in half. He was left holding just the handle. Ninja and Yaniv grabbed Winston's head and said Come on, hurry up, you dummy. Pick up the blade and cut real fast. But there wasn't enough of the blade left, and it was impossible to saw the throat; it was all slippery with the blood. And each time it cut in the wrong place. In the end everyone was covered with blood. How can it be that a dog has so much blood? Maybe it was because of the edema. Yaniv and Ninja and Ronen started running away, and the dog bit through the rope and got free, but only the front legs; the back ones stayed tied, and with shrieks, not dog shrieks, more like a woman shrieking, he dragged himself away on his belly and disappeared into the bushes, and when Dimi realized the others weren't there, he ran after them in a panic. He found them at last hiding in the garage underneath the block of flats. There was a tap there and they had managed to wash the blood off, but they didn't let him wash and they blamed him. It was all his fault Winston