My father and I buried our dog this morning. Easter Monday, overcast, birds whistling for him as we shoveled dirt back onto of his body. Last night he got to say goodbye to the family; he was full of energy and cheerful, a good final night. Ten days ago he had a very rough night, seizing up, pained, crying. He couldn't walk for a day. He got better and soon was walking, bounding even, and we thought that was that. This morning I woke up to my father telling me the news.
We dug a hole out in the back forest, between two wet cedars, near a white and brown birch that my father said reminded him of Morgan's colouration. We buried him on Easter Monday and told him he was a good boy, put a large stick on top of the dirt and told him to "stay".
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