Dog

My dog was barking as soon as I got inside, shivering from the cold. 

"Just a second, boy, I have to wash my hands," I said. Another bark. 

"Just a second!" My temper was running short. I sighed of relief as the water poured over my cold hands. 

"Okay, okay," I opened the door and he ran outside. I sat down at the table, coffee in hand, and trying not to remember the events of the previous night. But I'd forgotten how to forget. 

I heard barking outside and squinted out into the mist: My dog was eagerly digging something up. He must have smelt it. 

"No, you can't do that!" I was frustrated beyond belief. My fingers had callouses for digging that deep for that long. 

I looked down at my hands. The blood had washed off, but it had made stains nevertheless. God damnit.