(Editor’s note: This was originally written on paper as a type of journal entry.) I dug a grave today. I walked by there dozens of times, without thinking. Hoping. I thought they were okay, that they were growing, and that they were alive. I would look at them everyday, without knowing. I didn’t notice... they didn’t move... they didn’t breath. But today... today I decided to do something different. Dad told me to never touch them. Mom told me to never touch them. but I did. I wanted to before, but I had always resisted; maybe because of the fear that the mother would stop feeding them. I reached out. Farther than I had ever before. And I touched them. And they were cold. Cold as stones. And stiff. They were dead. They had dies. Long ago. I should have done something earlier. I knew it was too cold. I knew they I should have brought them in... but I was afraid. I regret I was afraid. But it would have been better, better than this. I knew what I had to do. With my latex gloves I picked them up, one by one. Gripping their fur. There were four of them. Their bodies cold, and matted together. Eyes glazed. Paws outstretched. Bloated bellies. And the maggots... crawling, and eating them... squirming violently. It made me sick. I put them on the ledge and went to get a box. Without looking, I shoved them into the box. Swearing, I got a shovel. I walked for a time, through a field of falling leaves. I looked around me; flowers dead, plants gone, life wilted. Falling leaves.... I eventually stopped. Putting down the box violently... I was mad... and choosing a spot with the shovel, I pressed in with my foot, sharply. I knew the hole had to be deep... enough to smother it... the maggots. I dug... bit by bit. Then I picked up the box, and slid them in, the bodies limping together in a muddled heap. And then I took the lumps of dirt with the shovel and covered them, making sure I filled any spaces. I remember pushing down on the mound... more like patting... hard. And then I covered the disturbed ground with leaves and grass, returning it to it’s original appearance the best I could. I picked up the empty box, and along with the shovel, I walked away. Back at the spot, I dropped the box and the shovel down without looking back. But I did have to go back, to retrieve the shovel. I looked at the box. I couldn’t touch it. I left it there, like a tombstone. The wind was strong... it would probably blow it away, eventually. I brought the shovel back inside, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t sad. More angry. At myself, for not doing something earlier. I felt cold, and heartless; like them. A feeling of obligation and responsibility was why I did what I did. I knew I I couldn’t leave them there, to rot away. I went out later that evening, and looked into the distance, into the sky, and into the trees. The leaves were still falling...