I lurched across the front yard, the flashlight still clamped in the hand that cradled his neck, throwing a beam that swept back and forth, up and down crazily over the front of the house, as if still searching for him.

My legs gave way at the back door, and I slumped onto the steps.  I cradled him in my arms, kissed his cooling black head, his muzzle, pressed the smell of him into me as if trying to capture it.  I whispered my love for him, my anguish into his soft ears.  I wanted him to hear the sound of my heart breaking, to know that he was loved enough to break it.

How long I held him like that I don’t recall, but the cold stickiness of his blood soaking my shirt brought me back.  Moving him, my tight embrace of his broken body had made the bleeding worse, and I wore it on my shirt, my pants, dribbled onto my shoes and socks like an accusation.

Hours later, after he’d been buried by my friend Chris, whom I called that night, I looked at myself in the mirror, saw his dark, dried blood across my cheek, my neck, on my hands and arms.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a long while, knowing I should take a shower before trying to go to bed, as Chris suggested before he left; after he’d buried my dog, my friend, my companion.  But I didn’t want to wash the last of him down my shower drain…didn’t want to lose the little part of him I had left, when the rest of him was already cold, already underground, already being rained on.

In the end, I took the shower, but threw the bloodied clothing into my hamper…and haven’t removed it since.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)