At lunchtime, I looked out,
and smiled at Dorothy,
who wagged, and then leaned forward,
raised herself like a camel's hump,
and coughed several times,
and then fell to the wood floor
of the deck.
When I got to her,
she may have been still breathing;
certainly, her heart was pumping faintly;
as certainly, she did not see me,
though I think she knew
I was coming, running
thunderfoot along
the sixty feet of decking
between me and her,
trying not to see
what was going on.

When I got to her,
it seemed improper
that she be there, in the burning sun,
alone, and dying,
when she had never really wanted
solitude, or no more than
a yard or two's worth.
Her mouth was closed, in the maiden-auntish way
that she had of holding herself
rather primly, though there was nothing
of the prig in her;
she was fussy,
that's all.
The breath, if there had been any,
stopped,
the hearbeat faded to simple
belly-rumbles, and then,
those faded, too,
and then I did
what I knew were obviously
useless chest compressions
for a very long while,
thinking that perhaps
I felt a beat, now and again.
She was very little, now.

And then I wrapped her in the old fur blanket
that I had brought with me from the far North,
and hoped that it might keep her warm
when we buried her in the cool, brown earth,

and piled rocks above her,
so that the things that eat the dead
might be somewhat slowed,
and stood for a long moment over her,
thinking of strays and waifs
and beloved friends now gone,
and then walked away quietly,
and sat, staring about,
trying to think of something
to do,
other than stroke the air.

It was a quiet death,
and dignified,
insofar as death can be
dignified.

We wondered why,
and spoke of being happy
she had chosen here
to come to,
and then, silently,
we said goodbye.

That was almost two years ago.
I wonder why
she hasn't gone?

Why haven't I?

©  Copyright, 1999; Malcolm Beckett