I bury him in our backyard, just behind from where newly washed clothes drip water on the soil. It’s also the place where we found him burying chicken bones we brought from lunch when he was still young. I dig the grave, plowing through the ground, toughened by the toil of the weather. I reach the part deep in the trench where the soil is sandy and wet, and smelled of crap. He most certainly would not like the fact that the ground he is to be buried in is wet, for he was not really the kind who takes a bath. But then again, he wouldn’t mind because he’s covered in plastic bags. I’d even assume he would find the cold earth comfortable, since he usually lie down with his back on the cool tiles located beside the laundry outside the house, while his front legs folds and his hind legs spread out like a pinned frog in a dissecting pan, making headway to sleep. I remember scolding at him for lying there like that because it looks obscene and improper, his black, hairy balls exposed. But then
Ramblings rescued from the great deep
