I buried my dog today, under a maple tree in the yard where we used to play. The older he got, the less he ran, and I wish I remembered better the years when he was young. Running with a stick in his mouth, digging in the fresh dirt of the flower bed, moving without stiffness or pain.
He will run again — with the wind. Beneath the crossed sticks and the musk of earth, all bones become bird bones, and all animals know how to fly.