It was a moving ritual, he had done it before.
It was a quiet place, where no one went. He laboured for a while with his small campers spade, then crossed the field to where he could find broken branches.
Snapping a piece off, he returned. He carefully lifted the shrouded form and lowered it in. More shovelling and a patting down of soft earth was followed by a moment’s silence. This brief pause was respectful and in part satisfying. He was putting to rest a loving pet. A stick in the ground was all that was needed. A simple marker to mark the occasion. There should always be something when this time came.
He had needed to do it before. He looked around at the other markers. Each one commemorating a lost friend. All thirty-five of them.
He hated dogs.