Dead Dog

Tonight
I ripped open the Ziploc bag
encasing the cremated remains
of my dead dog.

She was the family puppy
at first, of course, but
as my siblings and parents aged,
she became my girl.

Under the mist
of gray clouds,
I spread the last remnants
of once was my
first love.

A black canine
without prejudice,
judgment or malice,
just a adorable Labrador 
mutt born to be free,
running wild
no matter what
shit she returned
with stuck to her fur.

In her gray years,
she developed a pinched
nerve in her spinal chord,
squeezing her with nightly seizures
that voided her bowels
all over me, as I was
always the only one
to hear her yelps for help.

I’d watch her silhouette
stumble around the back yard
against the burnt black night
as she struggled to recover,
leading her back with
optimistic white lies.

A few weeks later,
my parents put her down
that everything would 
be all right.

All I have left
is a blurry photo
hours before her
lethal injection,
and a yard that is
no longer mine,
but is scattered
with her bone fragments
and ashes embedded
across her final resting place.


Scribbled by Chris Butler