Dead Dog

Dead Dog



I opened the Ziploc bag

encasing the cremated remains

of my dead dog.


She was the family dog

at first, of course, but

as my siblings and parents aged,

she became my dog.


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 mutt

with freedom

allowed to run wild

no matter what

shit she returned

her fur was covered in.


In her gray years,

she developed a pinched

nerve in her spine,

providing her with 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 stumbling

around the back yard

against the dark night

as she tried to recover,

leading her back with

optimistic white lies.


A few weeks later,

my parents put her down.


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


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