I am running out of space to bury my dead pets. The places that are easy to dig, anyway.
“Poppy!” I hollered at my puppy dog to stop digging up Boyo from his recent and shallow grave. She shied away as I carried a shovel towards the flowerbed in progress.
Living on a farm, the medium of choice for the dirt was chicken poop, the medium of choice for pet food was dead chickens. Chickens themselves made for nice pets, although very short lived.
I finally found a spot to dig up dirt from without opening another pocket of dried animal, Peepy, Shuppa, A.V., various feral cats; they were all here!
I shoveled dirt into the hole that had been dug right through the middle of an old wooden frame meant to discourage digging. It had been 2 or 3 years since the bed had started and it had not yet decomposed all the way, so it stank pretty badly. I only managed to put a few shovelfuls onto the exposed chicken foot before I ran out of usable dirt.
Then I noticed Twop’s (1 syllable, pronounced tuhwop) grave next to the little hazelnut tree.
“Not again”. I shooed Poppy away. Twop’s grave was only 18 inches deep, just enough to put an inch or two between her dead chicken feet and the surface of the ground. I was the one who dug it. There was really no dirt to cover it up this time, because it had been scattered throughout the grass and lost. Dogs aren’t careful diggers, don’t you know.
When I was done I tossed the shovel on top of the wooden frame, strategically blocking the grave of Boyo. Then I headed inside.
The naming of my animals is a story in itself. If anyone asks (fat chance) I’ll write about it. They’re pretty short, but their life stories are also lovely and bring a smile to my face every time.