Randomly studying I stumbled upon this poem by Sylvia Plath, which I would have included in my post by the same title had I been reading as I should have been:
Down among strict roots and rocks,
eclipsed beneath blind lid of land
goes the grass-embroidered box.
My dog did not have a box, we simply wrapped her in a towel and handed my stepfather the keys to the car, I don't know what he did with her body, but I do not think he buried her. Had I been thinking beneath my red, swollen, eyes I would have written her an elaborate epitaph, engraved it on a tombstone made of wood and buried her someplace where she'd always be close.
She was my reason for believing in reincarnation, unlike any dog I had ever come across, she had a soul that I am certain once inhabited a human form, I hope she understood how much we all loved her that night, last night as we watched her breathing slow to an end. It will puzzle many, my passion for a "mere animal", all but those who knew her. Below is the first poem [if it can be so called] I ever wrote.
My dog is a reflection of me
see how she cries and gnaws and scratches
and shits all over everything when she thinks you've abandoned her?
I loved that bitch....RIP PHOEBE, and to the millions of other souls lost today.