since moving out on my own my pets have all been transient visitors. somebody leaves the country and we inherit their cat, then we leave the country and the next person inherits it. it has been perhaps ten years since i've seen an animal friend go under the earth.

but when i lived at my mom's house in the country, when the dogs (three of them) and the cat all eventually succumbed to one peril of being alive or another, it was always me that had to wield the shovel.

i always found somehow that digging the graves was exactly the right catharsis. my eyes would tear up as i dug but by the time all was ready i would have not forgotten, but come to terms with their mortality.

perhaps the trick is owning large dogs. the bigger of the grave to dig, the deeper you can bury the pain.
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_{I don't think anyone's ever really died from smoking. --ni}