Found these two typed chapters folded up in a rusted coffee can behind my grandad’s outhouse in Burnet County. No author name, just “Old Yeller Part 2” written in pencil on the first page. Smells like coyote piss and regret.

Old Yeller Part 2
Chapter One: Ole Time Mule Rapin'
Hotter than the devil’s asshole that afternoon. Sun frying my brain like bacon in a skillet. Old Yeller, that yellow bastard, already tore the place to hell. Knocked over Ma’s wash, chewed Pa’s tobacco, pissed in the butter churn. Regular Tuesday.
I had to shit something fierce. Arliss been squatting in the outhouse since breakfast, probably jerking off his lizards again. Fuck it. Grabbed a corn cob and marched to the woods. Found me a nice fallen log, dropped trou, and let loose a turd the size of a goddamn possum. Sweet relief. Wiped with the cob. Felt human again.
That’s when the dog showed up.
Old Yeller come bounding through the brush like he smelled Sunday dinner. Sniffed once. Eyes lit up. Dove face-first into my fresh pile like a hog at the trough. Chomp. Slurp. Crunch. Tail whipping so hard it whistled. Shit smeared clear up to his eyeballs.
I stood there, britches round my ankles, dick flapping in the breeze. “You nasty motherfucker,” I said real calm. Then I lost my damn mind.
Grabbed a stick thick as my wrist and lit after him. “I’ll kill you, you shit-eating son of a bitch!” He took off yipping, pieces of my turd flying off his tongue like chocolate sprinkles. I tripped, ate dirt, came up spitting blood and mad as a hornet with its balls on fire. He circled back, dropped the last chunk at my feet like a gift, and licked my face with that shitty mouth.
I beat him half to death with the stick. He just rolled over, showed his belly, and grinned. Dog was too stupid to die.
Stomped back to the cabin dragging him by the scruff. Ma stood on the porch, hands on hips, tits about to bust out her dress.
“Travis, what in the hell—”
“That dog ate my shit, Ma. Straight out the chute.”
She looked at Yeller. Looked at me. Looked at the brown streaks on his muzzle.
“Well,” she said, “least somebody round here cleans up after you.”
Old Yeller belched. A chunk of corn hit the porch plank.