I'm digging a grave tomorrow.

my parents' dog is going to go to sleep.

cancer of the belly. it happens to dogs.

it happened to their last dog too – my dog

when I was young. his name

was pluto. sad eyes in a bandit pattern

mask of fur, black on white. I loved him in a way

I don't love this dog, though I like her when I visit.

this is just something I have to do, like shaving

or showering in the morning. putting on a coat

on a day in december. putting on gloves. after she dies

they are going on holiday. I can't imagine

it will be pleasant, but no moreso than having to do it

when you come home after three weeks in the tropics.

this is what happens. they've had her 12 years

and they have argued – my mother is a farmers daughter

and knows that animals die, and my dad (from the city)

hates death and doesn't want it. I have a tough

time blaming him – she's his dog. I'm digging because he

can't bring himself to do it. my dog is on the sofa

as I write this in the kitchen – she's much older

and still healthy in her way, but it will happen.

I was in work when they took pluto

to the vet in 2010. the woman I was working with

said I was heartless not to be there.