William killed Mo's ferrets; did he poison the poor dog as well?
(and pee-paw has a question)
nothing quite like a dead dog
my Honey died
her kidneys slowly filling with fluid
organs shutting down one by one
tubes coming out of her nose
I lay prone on the hard tile floor
next to her
and I wonder, “why can’t they make a dog that lasts a man’s whole life?”
her ribcage rises slowly, and falls
slowly
and I lay prone on the hard tile floor, knowing this night would be her last.
next to the dog I adopted from an abusive ex-girlfriend,
who ended a strained relationship with
my head stitched up and the blood wiped away,
I took the dog in,
her owner thrown in jail—and I without any feeling of loss at all
my sense of loss reserved till now
and her ribcage rises and falls, slowly
her eyes glassy
and I ask myself, just as I entered an abusive relationship with her owner,
why had I entered another relationship, with this dog
knowing it would be taken away all too soon, as all dogs are
someday
and not knowing this day would be today.
I lay still on the cold hard floor
next to her
and they take her away, wrapped up in blankets,
tubes coming out of her
I see the look of recognition in her eyes;
she knows me; she knows where she is;
I wonder if she knows she’s dying
In the morning I hold her, in a small sterile room,
and I feel the life slip away from her body,
as I hold her,
as the lethal injection is administered.
her muscles loosen, her limbs flop down like a ragdoll, as I shift in my seat
trying not to move
not wanting to feel the slack, lifeless weight of her body
not wanting to glance into her vacant eyes;
not wanting to see her eyes vacant.
not wanting to see her dead.
like my grandfather’s funeral, where I had averted my eyes entirely from the open casket
not wanting to see this man dead.
not wanting to know his body is in a state of decay;
that when that casket is lowered into the ground and covered in dirt
his body will continue to decompose, and in time
nothing is left but the bones.
I didn’t want to see her dead.
I didn’t want to picture her
bathed in flame
till nothing is left but the bones.
I sit without feeling.
and look away as she is taken from my arms and carried off…
I sit
and I think—
for a man, there’s nothing quite like a dead dog.
nothing quite like death
on a smaller scale
I should grieve more for my grandfather, I think
but then again,
death is death,
and on any scale,
there’s nothing quite like a dead dog.
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