From a while ago.

Okay, so while I was writing about China, one of our dogs died, and I was upset, of course. So I wrote this. I wasn't going to post it because it's kind of sad, and not very good, and more poetry like that what I usually post on this blog, but what the heck, I decided. I may as well do it. And I didn't realize until after I'd written it that it was in present tense, which I rarely write in. So tell me what you think, or just ignore it. Either way works.
Snoopy died today. We're burying her softly in the hard, brown earth. Kenny arrives with his yellow dragon to dig a hole in the soil. The sharp talons of the shovel make a sharp contrast to the evening sky.
Sweetheart cries.
It makes me feel awkward, her crying. Mom holds her, crooning nice words into her little ears. Sweetheart clutches for all she's worth. She cried once already. This does not matter to her. The backhoe stops, and all I can hear is a child's sobs and a bird in the silver maple.
Kenny is here because the ground is too hard for us to dig a decent grave (six feet under, six feet under, my mind drones) and he has the equipment. He can probably hear her sobs. He must; it's the only noise in the empty hill. He makes no sign, and I am still embarrassed. I am on the porch, holding Baby. She's feeling silly, and I blow absentmindedly on her white back. She gurgles delightedly and bops me on the head.
"Stop dat." I'm always amazed at how articulate her minute voice it. "I want down. I want Mama."
I hold her wiggling form. "You can't go down there. You'll get dirty. Mama's busy," I try to get her to be quiet. Toddlers don't understand tact. Baby ignores me.
"I said I want DOWN!" she yells. I cringe, but Sweetheart and Mom take no notice. She's still crying.
I am ashamed, I contemplate. I am ashamed because I'm not sad. I'm... I search for a good word. I'm detatched. That's it. No, I correct myself, I am sad. I just don't cry. I rarely cry, usually if I do it's tears of frustration and anger at myself. I feel empty at the moment. I imagine my tears floating to Sweetheart and feel a little better about myself.
I hear the bird sing a melancholy tune. Baby continues to squirm. I let her sit down on the bench. She sighs, and nestles close to me. I know she won't sit still for long, but it's pleasurable while it lasts. I watch Sweetheart pull back the blanket for one last look at our dog. She bursts into more sobs. I still feel only a little sad, from a distance.
Grass and loam cover our beagle. She was nice. She was pretty. She is no more. I remember something a friend once told me. "Don't have funerals for animals. You don't know what religion they are." This strikes me as sound advice, if ridiculous. I kick my foot against the bottom of the fence. I imagine if I looked into the mirror I would seem sad. That doesn't mean much. I can usually look any way I want. If I really wished, I could even make myself sad. If I did, I still wouldn't be crying for Snoopy. I'd be crying for God, or for people I'd hurt. This is false, but highly useful at times.
Baby is tired of sitting in one place. She toddles over to Mom, who is done holding Sweetheart because, sometime during my deep thinking the dog has been buried and Sweetheart has gotten control of her emotions. She is carrying some Hollyhocks the vet gave us. One is broken, but she hasn't noticed yet.
Edison hops over the fence, followed by the neighbor kid and his cousin. They are carrying sleeping bags. I was unaware that we were having guests.
"Snoopy died, did you know?" Sweetheart is over the dog's death for the most part. She states the expiration of our animal callously now.
Edison says "I know," shortly and tries to drag his friends inside.
"What?" CJ asks.
"Our dog. She's dead. She was the only girl dog." She brushes some of her golden hair out of her face. The cousin looks impassive.
"That's sad," CJ says. I can tell he's at a loss for words.
"Snoopy dead now," Baby says seriously, prancing about the porch in nothing but a diaper. This whole situation strikes me as rather mcab, especially since I can hear Dad commenting to Kenny that out other dog is buried under the same trees.
And a guinea pig, several rabbits, hamsters and a bird, I add in my mind. There are probably more, but I can't think of them at the moment. Edison shuffles his feet and clears his throat.
"Pop hit her wis our car." Baby is still speaking, but she has stopped skipping. She's looking up at CJ.
Yes, I think. We are a house of mourning. Begone. I roll my eyes inwardly. I am so weird. I end the awkwardness by offering to take CJ's stuff upstairs. He declines, and they all go in.
Kenny pulls out of our driveway. Sweetheart sits in the grass. Mom plants Hollyhocks. I start to head inside, but take one last look at the grave.
Snoopy chases kittens in Heaven, I add to myself hopefully. You never know.