“Ma… Snoop dog’s dead!” I heard my sister tell my mom while I was sculpting a starfish from a bar of soap. I hurriedly ran to the garage to check out our dog. I saw it strangled with its own leash, tongue out and with the stiffness of death crawling on its body. Scenes of its “puppyhood” flashed inside my head -- days when Snoop would freely run around the house, until it grew bigger and my mom had to let him stay outside of the house in the garage. I was actually surprised to see him tied in a leash because the past few days he freely greeted me every time I arrived home. My mom told me that she had to tie it up after its bath.
I carried the dead dog’s body to our backyard. I couldn’t bare the look on its face -- the look of death. I stared at it for a while before I began digging its grave. The soil was so dry. I had to put water to soften it. It took me an hour and gallons of sweat to dig up a hole in the ground deep enough for the dog's dead body. While I was digging I imagined going home without a high-tone bark welcoming me.
