Bacon

 Winner, Creative Corner
Brendan Batt, Louisiana State University 

There are times in life when it is best to fight your tears, and times when you must let them flow. We carried him in an ice chest from my truck through the house into the back yard, just as we had carried him from the mudboat to the truck, burning with remorse laden with pain; our minds still scorched by the horrible images to which we had paid witness. We sunk shovels into the hard earthen clay. Despite our efforts the digging was slow. It was important to go deep, at least four feet. My throat swelled and took off my shirt striking violently at the walls of the hole beneath me. Tears welled again in my eyes and streamed down my face. My brother’s face was stoic and unchanging, but equally hurt. He seemed to be reflecting on thoughts I was incapable of conjuring in my current state of emotion. I stared up at the sun squinting, clenching my jaws in despair.

 

“Is it our fault?” My brother questioned as he rested his weight upon the handle of the shovel, his head facing down into the grave. His eyes wandered to the ice chest.

 

“No. But there will never be another one like him.”

 

“Best dog ever.”

 

We continued in silence. Sweat mixed with tears and dirt, and in our heads the pain fused with remorse and heartache. When the grave was deep enough we both stared at each other and at the hole. My mother watched from the back porch. Tears had muddled her face.

 

“It’s deep enough.”

 

I walked over to the ice chest and motioned my mom to go inside. My tormented face was enough for her to know she would not want to see this. I flipped the lid back and gently grabbed him under the rib cage, wrapped in my bloody hunting jacket, his cold entrails stuck to my arm. Blood and water dripped from the towel down my chest, collecting in a brown stain on my pants. My brother rushed to help me. We laid him in the hole, his dry tongue hanging out of his mouth, eyes closed. His rich, black fur was caked with blood and dirt. There was nothing of my friend left in the corpse we now laid into the ground. His hind leg distorted, hanging on by tendons, showed bone at the corner of his resting place. I placed a clean towel over his body. My brother began to lay his favorite things beside the body. A training dummy from when he was a puppy, a few of his favorite objects to chew on, some duck wings from the freezer for training, and a Canvasback drake, the king of all waterfowl; we had frozen the bird with the intention of mounting it in the living room, its plumage was immaculate. The beautiful specimen would have looked gorgeous on the wall, but it served its purpose far greater in the tomb of our great friend. A final parting gift. 

 

At this point tears flowed freely from both our faces. We sobbed like children and embraced each other.

 

“ It’s just too goddamn much, I don’t get it….We should have known better.”

 

“Maybe.”

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