Judge me.

We had a dachshund when I was six. A little wiener-shaped dog. My pretentious father named it 'Truth'. My mother ran over it while backing out of the driveway. Truth was buried beneath a pine tree. My sisters made me feel guilty, because I had tied my red wagon to the passenger side of the car (it was unseen by my mother as she entered on the driver's side), and they thought the noise of the banging wagon confused Truth so she couldn't escape.

This has haunted me ever since.

So what do you think? Am I guilty of mangling Truth, or not?