When my Granny was eight or nine, the Germans came to Limburg and took over her house. They were to move to Friesland, in the North, but they couldn't take their dog with them. Her father begged the Germans to shoot the dog, as a kindness, but they wouldn't "waste the bullet." He took it upon himself to kill the dog with a brick but the dog didn't die. He left it with relatives. For a long time he was haunted by the image of its smashed face. When they returned home, after the war, the dog had died. For years, they thought about it often. But there was nothing to be done.
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