bury old dogs

When we were first dating, his parents had an old basset hound. I bounced into their backyard one afternoon – Nate wasn’t home. His mother, a prolific gardener, was digging a hole and I happily said, “What kind of tree are you planting.”

She looked at me and said, “The dog kind.”

I almost laughed.

She was so straight faced.

“Betty had to go this afternoon. But don’t tell Nate.”

“Won’t he notice she’s gone?”

“Oh. I suppose he will.”

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