By BernardYoung

The Death of a Cat

After the vet left
(I’d been advised that it was less
stressful for the animal
if it was done at home)
I wrapped her in a towel,
one we wouldn’t miss,
and carried her outside.
The hole I’d already dug
was in a small patch of garden
next to where we kept the dustbin.
I laid her gently
at the bottom of the hole
and said goodbye.
I covered her with soil
and patted it flat
with the spade.
Then I went inside.
I sat on the bed
and bowed my head.
I didn’t cry
but the awful primeval moan
that oozed
rather than escaped
from my mouth
and then shockingly
noisily breathed in
on itself
as I sucked in air,
as if I’d been drowning,
took me by surprise.
I stayed there,
head bowed,
for I don’t know
how long.

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