Farm Dog.

Dingo isn't dead. You will all be informed when Dingo has perished, but don't worry, she won't.
Dingo showed up on the front porch of our house a long time ago, a whipped, malnourished puppy. No one seems to remember which year it was. I was probably in middle school.

Dingo has a story, many of you have heard it. But here I am to repeat it, because the internet needs to know. Dingo started life as a truck chaser. Dingo was hit by a truck and stopped yipping at bumpers. Around the time she was hit my dad put in a small runway in anticipation of putting a small plane out there. In mid-Ohio any windsock/cleared field combination is an open invitation for anyone who thinks they can make it in and out to land there. In the summer 3-4 ultralights would land in any given week. Dingo took up ultralight chasing. She'd hear the drone and race across the field to bite the tailwheel of all aircraft landing or taking off. My dad bought Nine Eight Seirra, a Cessna 150-150 and parked her in the hanger. One winter weekend when I am in high school, I load up a three-wheeler in the back of the truck to take over to Rusty's place to drive like an idiot. My mom tells me that she and my dad are planning to take Brenda (the Cessna) up to an island in Lake Erie for a spot of lunch. About 4 in the afternoon I drive home and park the ATV. When I get near the house, I see Dingo crawling out from under the porch to greet me. Everything normal, except her head is coated in blood from her mangled face and she's limping. I don't dare pet her for fear she lost a battle with a rabid animal. Just then the plane lands so I run out to see if my parents know what's going on. "Oh, she's not dead yet?" asks my dad with a look of surprise.
The explanation I begin to receive goes like this. There was a light breeze that day, out of the east. This is slightly unusual on our farm for the wind is almost always reliably coming from the west. Our plane was almost too big, and too underpowered for the length of the strip, and to get all available power out of the plane you must take off into the wind. Dingo lined up where she usually did, nearer the east end of the runway, facing the eastbound plane. My dad saw her, but figured she was smart enough to get out of the way.
She wasn't.
She killed the engine of the plane by stopping the prop with her face. My parents get out to find their dog has a massive head wound that's gushing blood. They decide the most humane course of action for a dog about to die of blood-loss is to kill said dog. Owning no guns, and finding the shovel-to-the-head to be reserved for less lovable animals, they call a neighbor. He brings a 22. My dad ties dingo to the quonset hut with some twine. From ten feet away our neighbor does the neighborly deed of trying to kill my dog. Shoots her right in the chest. Dingo is now scared, frightened, hurt, and running hard enough to break the twine. She runs to the house, he fires at her again. But, alas, she makes it to the hole under the porch. My parents shrug and leave for a tasteless meal in Erie.
To wrap up: I take dingo to the vet. He does some stuff. We pay him far less then what the work he did was worth. I take dingo home. That was the first and last time dingo ever left our farm since being dropped off. Dingo has no sinuses and still has the bullet floating around in there somewhere but she's fine.
Now she's old. She's stone-deaf, far-sighted, and wholly deprived of a sense of smell. And my mom ran her over with a tractor the other morning. But it didn't seem to hurt her.