This mud on my knees is from the ground
where I buried the dog,
in a hole with muddy water
on land not our own, but
belonging to a modern-day Joseph of Arimathea
We wrapped him in blankets with his favorite toy
and covered him,
in between trees that hold the atoms of his predecessors,
small souls of friends.
Our vet entered the room
with a box of comfort and death.
The first injection brings sleep
We placed our hands on him
as though we might soak in every last wisp of his being
as he slipped into sleep
whispering, “You’re a good dog, a good dog”
The second injection brings death
We watched in the stillness as our vet
listened for his heart to give up life
We came in the front
and left out the back.
God placed the animals in Adam’s care
and we took death into our own hands
We say we’re making the right decision
but in our hearts we know
we were never meant to make that choice.
It’s not the apple we thought it to be
This empty state
we cannot escape
We are monsters for allowing suffering, or
murderers for choosing death
We shoulder burdens we were never meant for
Our souls split every time our hearts carry the weight of Judas Iscariot
but the Christ shall make us whole
RIP, Bixter. We love you.