Cradling his soft fur,

stroking the scars on his face

around his sore and

(always now) runny nose,

we wait for his blood to talk

and the vet to translate.

I look at his collar, and think

of the one just like it

(but with little white skulls

instead of lizards)

that waits on the shelf

for us to plant the garden

and the box of ashes

and I wonder just how many

name tags we can stand

to bury in one year.

Bo’s story.

What do you think?

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