Frank’s Sporadic Blog, With Fries

That’s two graves now, dug in what seems like as many weeks.

First there was Dixie. She had a very long and very good life, surrounded by friends and pack-mates and food and shelter. Old age finally took her, although she fought it to the very bitter end. I hope she got in at least one good hard bite on Death’s deserving butt.

Today, puppy Zoe passed. She’d had maybe six weeks of life. I wasn’t around for any but the last. I did the best I could, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.

I put her by Dixie. Nearby are five other graves.

I’m really tired of digging graves.

I know, I know, the cycle of life, yada yada yada. Frankly, the older I get, the less patience I have with all those poetic homilies.

There really isn’t much left to say. I could rant on about the injustice of it all, but the universe isn’t reading my blog and wouldn’t care either way if it was.

So I’ll close with a quote from one of my own stories, in which Markhat stands by a grave of his own and struggles to say goodbye. Maybe he’ll say it better than I can.

I looked away from her. The Sarge and Petey and a host of others—were they really watching, looking down on us from somewhere? Was another, warmer sun beaming down on them, making all they’d suffered under this one seem long ago and far away?