Dog's Body

Perhaps the children had wanted to help,
For the grave had not been dug too deep. 

Or the hard clay had proved too difficult a test,
so a bier of leaves and twigs had finished the job.

After the downpour, the skull lay exposed,
big as a sloth’s, the cruel looking incisors

lapping the jaw. A piece of fuzz clung
to one eye socket, adding a touch of Groucho,

while the body curled underneath in a parody
of hearth and sleep.  One hard paw pushed

upward through the soil.  The smell was ghastly.
And so my daughter and I retrace our steps,

our hike to the creek postponed.  She is full
of questions, though, curious to know the breed. 

Perhaps a German shepherd or retriever, I answer. 
Maybe a shepherd, she says, looking disturbed.

Why did they leave it there, Daddy? 
The rain uncovered the body.  Nobody’s fault.

Will they come back to check on it? 
It’s hard to say.  The mud bank just washed away.

I don’t like to walk down that road anymore.
It’ll be O.K.  I can come back with the shovel.

Will you bury it?  Yes.  It was someone’s pet.
Will it stay buried this time?  I’ll make sure.

Does she think we should come back then and
leave flowers?  A bit hesitantly, she says Yes–

I guess–if it was someone’s pet.  The crisis
in the past, I reach out to take her hand.