Vaguely interesting story, I guess?

When I was a little kid, my parents lived out in the deep country. Appalachia, you know, the kind of place that takes a step past "rural" and moves on into "undeveloped." Seeing as how the local police station had a fairly long response time, being as it was several miles away, they kept a guard dog on the property because there was some equipment worth protecting at the time.

That dog, apparently, had gotten bitten by a copperhead snake when he was younger. The land where we lived was pretty much surrounded by undeveloped woods, so it was pretty lousy with them.

That dog hated copperhead snakes with the burning passion of a thousand suns. He spent his days roaming the usual spots, hunting the little buggers, and he'd figured out how to avoid their strikes and kill them instantly. I don't even think he usually ate them, he just hated them, all of them, and wanted them to die.

No dog pictures, sorry.