I suppose skidding down a driveway, being dragged by the 200lb trashcan holding my dead dogs, would serve as a kind of lesson. But it didn’t, maybe because I never saw them dead. I lifted the bags, but they were just bags. They weren’t my dogs. My dad had been the one who stayed with them when the vet came to put them down. He fed them fois gras & petted them & loved them. I couldn’t handle it. Or I didn’t want to. So I went to lunch with my mom. We came back while the vet was still at our house, so we drove around in a few circles, crying. My dad put them in garbage bags, then I showed up and put the bags into the trash. We had buried our last two dogs, but we weren’t trying to start a pet cemetery in our front yard. We didn’t call animal control, because they’d just throw Daisy & Fontaine in the trash. So we did it ourselves, and they were heavy. They brought me, slowly on my butt, down the long curve of the house I’ve always known, and to the street. Fontaine had been a great pillow-dog. A giant, and warm, and we had shared my bed with his sister.
Then, they were in a trashcan, and now are probably half-rotten, entombed in refuse. But, they were good dogs, and I loved them, and my family loved them, and mostly I miss them and wish they were still here.