There is so much grief
between the four of us
that we drive to the clinic
in two separate cars

When we get there
my parents struggle
to lift the golden bundle of childhood
from the backseat

Her paws hit the pavement
and she is staggering
towards the little white dog
across the parking lot

She stops to breathe
             heavy breaths
             full of effort

Dad is the first to cry
holding her leash while
the rest of us hold our breath

We are crammed into a room
too small to comfortably support
all the woe between us

I am holding front paws
face pressed to fur
and the doctor asks me
if this is my first time
as if to imply

death gets easier
if you let loss become routine

she asks if we want to burn the bandana too

she uses two needles

Dad leaves the room
Trevor swears he can still see her chest moving
Mom's eyes red like embers
head heavy on my arms

When I get home
I use an entire bottle of shampoo
on Russell but

the white fur on his chin
doesn't wash away