That day, like every other day, her tiny hand swelled up and became infected. I still remember the veterinarian making an incision to remove the foreign object, but then letting it heal on its own instead of bandaging it. And then it happened: her little hand blistered and filled with pus. It hurt so much she couldn't bear it and passed away right then, in my arms. That's right, she's finally over her months of grief. I personally carried her to the foot of the plum tree, placed her on the brick pyre, lit the fire, said a few final words, and waited for the flames to die down. I took the small, two-finger-sized vial and then collect all the ashes in there. I didn't cry, not a single tear fell. But those who witnessed me doing it felt my pain; they cried for me.
Light a PawTap the floor to walk · Drag to look around
