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Wednesday, September 29, 2010


Our Welsh terrier was a wanderer,
leave the door open and you would
spend the next hour ringing
neighbors’ doorbells and asking:

Did you see a black and tan dog . . .?
So on sunny afternoons
we’d tie her leash to the porch
post for an hour or so.

That day our daughter, age 10, came
home from school and found her
hanging by her leash
her paws barely touching the ground.

Come and help me bury her
I said. She shook her head, sobbing.
I placed the warm body
in her arms and insisted.

We walked to the woods.
I dug the hole. She held Tess,
then laid her gently down.
Toss some dirt on her I said.

Was I wrong?

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