They dug a hole and placed him in it. They shoveled dirt atop. They nailed a plaque onto a post.
They stood and mumbled words.
They bowed their heads.
They shed some tears.
They did it the way it was done.
The way friendships were supposed to close.
And still it did not feel right. That kind of burying. The post with painted plaque. The tidy mound of dirt over their spot.
The next day they lugged the old doghouse and placed it on him.
Even for rot.
After all, Spot loved the lot.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas