underworld entrance

(I heard his last cry.) Six hours later, as if in a trance, I walked into the bushes by the garden shed and there he was, eyes staring blankly, stiff like a stuffed animal. A large slobber mark on his fur where the predator’s mouth had gripped him. His ear was full of blood and his tongue was skewed, displaced to the side of his mouth from the violence of the attack. How lifeless he was. All the vibrant animation gone; sharp contrast to the rapidly swivelling ears and those so-smart eyes that had it all figured out and a new trick to boot. I put a white piece of poly in the wheelbarrow and placed his body on top. We had already started to dig the hole. I couldn’t bear the thought of shovelling the dirt on to his fur. All the accumulated days he had worked keeping it clean; his psychogenic alopecia had made this overkill. I quickly gathered some scrap wood and knocked together a little crate to protect his fur from the indignities of dirt. The scrap wood pieces were a little short so I would have to place him in the little box like he was sitting. My son thought he should have one of his old toys so we quickly found a ’sweater’ mouse to put at his feet. I had to gently push his head down to air nail the last top boards in place. But it was done. We both filled in the hole and stacked some rocks to mark his resting place. It’s all for the best we said to each other. “He was getting old and infirm.” “He won’t have to suffer through aging diseases.” “At least we found his body so we could have closure.” “He had a good life.” A few sobs. All those things to try to salve the pain of departure.

Done