Burying Old Bones

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 he just stared at me.

As I am about to place him on the burrow,
I pull up his jaw, as it remained open
after the moment gasping for his final wheeze.
It still lingers, those seconds of agony.
His mouth was wet from the water I
poured in trying to save him from his dry breaths.
From that point on, I can see it in his eyes staring at one corner,
his side on the floor tiles,
and his legs did not fold, did not spread.

Just to make sure,
I place him properly on his deathbed,
his head on higher ground,
so as to keep the blood circulating in his body.
I really just want him to be fine.