He had, when it became clear The dog was on his last legs, Went to a canine memorial concern, One of those somewhat well-intentioned marketing brainstorms Which operated under the assumption That what was good enough for master was good enough for Fido, And the folks who ran the place dressed in dark suits Which accentuated the notion that what they did Was no different than going through the paces Of sending Grandma to her final reward (Though the whole thing carried out With a wink and a nod, All of which by no means bringing credit to man nor dog.) He'd been put off by the whole fol-de-rol, Though he'd sat dutifully through the videos and brochures, Being possessed of the same damnable politeness Which made a place like this possible if not necessary, And he'd ignored the two or three follow-up inquiries. The dog finally came to his rest On one of those gray silent November days Which were the harbinger of the locking season, And he'd taken him down to the back part of his property Where he'd had the soybeans in this year, A spot where three or four of his dogs already resided, And though there was no markers or such on the spot, He reckoned that the fact it was a good patch of growing land Was sufficient testament to their standing.