Resthig was a dog-eater, pure and simple. I suppose you know that was the cause of my vendetta against him and all of his web-footed clan. I would stand at the entrance of the arroyo with my crossbow and wait for one of those dog-eaters to approach. I'd stick a poisoned bolt right through the evil heart of every single one of them if I had my chance, but I never had such satisfaction as when I stuck that pig sonafabitch Resthig himself.
When that dog-eater came around the corner of a rock outcropping in the arroyo, I was standing there with my crossbow leveled at his heart. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me, bastard that he was. He smiled at me through his flesh-encrusted grill and tried to make a move for his sidearm.
The bolt went clean through the place his heart might have been, had that soulless bastard dog-eater had a heart. He dropped like a load of wet kibble onto the ground. Duke, my Australian Shepherd, gave a cheerful, playful bark.
"Go on, pal...go ahead," I said to Duke, who dashed over to Resthig and emptied his bladder.
Duke and I walked home to a fine dinner and an evening of disc golf. He tried to let me win again but my aim just ain't what it used to be.