I am a dog I am a dog I am a dog I am a dog. I am an old dog, so old I died three weeks ago. They didn’t want me to die, they didn’t want me to go, so they took me to the veterinarian. The veterinarian couldn’t say, "Put him to sleep," or they couldn’t hear him, so they gave me steroids, and steroids are amazing things. They couldn’t bring me to life but I do walk around now, lifelike. Skeletal. My fur is soft.

This is from before my time—there is no reason I should know this—but when the hamster died they didn’t bring him back to life, they laid him in a box, they took the box outside, and they tried to dig a hole to bury him. The ground was frozen and they couldn't. Then they became distracted by something and they put him on a fence post and went inside. He sat in his box on a fence post until spring. I will die before spring, and they will burn me up. Salt sticks in my paws. I am gone, or almost gone.