I used to have a dog named Darwin.
1
The day he died was a great day.
No other day can ever compare,
to one of the best days of my life,
the day my dog Darwin died.
Darwin’s spirit never lost its vigour:
He danced through the wobble in his legs,
smiled brightly despite the lack of teeth.
But the wounds on his legs and the milky glaze over his eyes,
were enough evidence that he was past his time.
So, my mom decided to relieve his soul,
from the betrayal of his decaying body.
No more than two days before,
did I hear he would die.
Did I hear his existence
would cease to persist.
We all wished we did not have to hear he would die,
the exact date and time.
2
No one can ever prepare for such a day,
unknown what to do, how to act, to behave.
But the one thing I wanted for my dog Darwin,
was to lay safe and sound in the comfort of his garden
in which he once ran around.
And so, around noon, I went on my way,
on a quest to dig the most wondrous grave,
to our old vegetable garden, containing ideal soil,
for digging did not make the shovel recoil.
With the first lonely stab, the digging commenced,
but with only one shovel, I barely advanced.
The clock kept on ticking, and I felt bereft,
at the thought that I only had four hours left.
3
Thankfully, not long after my sister joined in,
bringing with her the man of the hour:
our staggering, toothless and lively dog, Darwin.
My sister and I, we laughed, and we cried,
at the irony of Darwin lying by our side,
on his very last and most final of days,
while we dig for him his eternal rest place.
The hole came along, though still far away from reaching,
a deepness and shape that would define it: pleasing.
And so we continued to dig in the ground,
feeling the burning of arms giving out.
Thankfully, not long after my mother joined in,
with a pickaxe in hand and a teary-eyed grin.
She had at the soil with a powerful force,
sense of duty toward Darwin at the heart of its source.
4
With each ticking second, the deadline came closer,
we knew it was coming yet kept our composure.
Existing in a state of constant delusion,
waiting for the thing that causes disillusion.
Broken was the spell that was cast on the garden,
for there, around four, through the gate stepped the warden.
She annexed the space that we had reserved,
for an eternal state that we could not preserve.
The liquid set in, and the sky started changing,
its palette uncertain – constant rearranging.
Until the heavens could no longer stop
from weeping with us for his future loss.
Quickly darted inside to gather some treats,
I brought back a whole assortment of meats.
He munched on them gladly, even in this state,
of eyes being droopy and a decreasing heart rate.
5
We sheltered our Darwin from the drizzling rain.
We petted him, fed him, and tried lessening his pain.
We loved him to death as to hopefully achieve
his final state consisting of pure joie de vivre.
He rested his eyes, refraining from breathing.
Shortly after, his heart stopped beating.
The heavens stopped weeping, rejoicing with glee,
for his spirit was liberated and finally free.
Disturbingly beautiful is it to partake,
in the process that readies us for the wake.
We all wished we did not have to hear he would die,
the exact date and time.
But I wouldn’t have wished it went any other way.