Dixie and I aged together in the house. I could see he was developing cataract in his eyes. Apart from that he showed no signs of ill-health. One morning he was lying near the dining table. And he hadn't go out to piddle. Two or three times I told him: 'Dixie, come on. Get out!' He didn't budge. Then I prodded his neck with my toe. The third time I did that he got up and started walking slowly. I opened the door. He went down the two steps. He lay across the entrance...and died.
I buried him behind the house. He was a black dog. The tree I planted over him drops fragrant white flowers
on his grave.