Arthur was a good man. A good one. Even if he didn't believe it, you did. He wanted to believe that he was, but he couldn't. He always seemed to prove it to himself that he was bad.

He should've agreed to take you back to the camp instead of offering you a drink. You told him he didn't have to. He should've listened. Now, his breath was coming out in short huffs, his lip bleeding, and his knuckles covered in blood. He was standing, the other man was not. It was dark out, muddy from it raining all day. And tugging on his arm, was you, begging him to stop--pleading. He did. He did because it hurt to see you cry. To make you cry. The fight only happened because the other guy was making crude remarks towards you. He had every right to stand up for you, his sweet little wife. But maybe he went too far.

He wasn't a violent dog. He doesn't know why he bites.