You walked in all bloated, like down pillows
On toothpicks with a stomach flipped
Sideways. Your eyelids went white, your gums
Were the color of earthworms.

Someone had told me that euthanasia didn’t hurt,
But I wondered anyway as you were dragged, now cold.
When you died it smelled like wet pavement.

I went home alone to find tufts of your fur on
The floor where you had strained.
I laid in it, searching for traces
Of your smell, the warmth that was there
Just hours before, but found none. Only
The dim light of a streetlamp glaring
Through the window.

A week later you were heavy in a big green box.
The vet said “here’s your baby”,  then handed you to me.
I laughed. Some press paws in clay, bag a toenail,
Or bury the ashes in their gardens,
But I have learned that fragments of you
Are not enough to say I’m sorry.