Death of a Dog.

A Someone Close's dog was dying.

As I sat here, perched on the wooden stool, watching the dying dog lying in Someone Close's sister's arms, Someone Close's parent standing close by, and Someone Close seated next to me, watching - 

It is often difficult to witness, this shallowing of laboured breath, taken through a mouth agape, watching it become even more laboured - 

It is a necessary process of life: with life comes death. Yet - 

And the dog died, in the arms and presence of the ones he so loved. 

Sister laid him on the floor, Someone Close powdered him, because to shower him now would be - inappropriate? No one cried. Loving efficiency, but no tears. Perhaps in acceptance of having a canine loved and cherished, regardless of whether it still breathed. Sister held on, cradling him in her arms, still, to keep him awhile. 

She spoke softly, whispered to it.

Tears and loneliness for a soul so loved would come soon, but now sorrow has mercy enough to wait.