This will probably be part of a short story.
Lamar quickened his stride as he approached his home. Lady always came bounding down the dog run when she heard the latch of the gate click open. Her ears and coat were brushed back by the wind and she’d brake to a stop and lick Lamar’s face with kisses, her tail going like a windshield wiper against a fierce rain.
Something was terribly wrong today because she did not come to greet him. His parents were sitting on the porch, his father reading a paper and his mother mending socks. “Where’s Lady?” Lamar asked.
“She’s gone,” his father said.
“Where?”
“A family who owns a farm asked if they could take her. They said she’d be happy there running across the whole field. I said ‘Yes.’
A couple of years later when Lamar was walking through a wooded area near his home, he found Lady’s skull with a bullet hole in the center. He pieced together what may have happened. After Prohibition ended, drinking establishments sprang up all over. Patrons of the bars passed by Lamar’s house on their way home and were startled by Lady’s barking, and they complained to Lamar’s father. Lamar’s father shot Lady. When Lamar turned 17, he joined the Navy.