I never met Mac the cat but apparently he died in the basement. As have all of the dead pets I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Three exactly, walked downstairs before going. And Maggie, the turtle, dug a nice hole.

When my dog killed a squirrel, my dad went to bury it, in a box he let me carry it, all the way to the grotto. And three feet in, he found another dead squirrel, pre-wrapped in dirt coddle.

This makes sense to me, these preceding events. I might even consider the same. Rolling under the mattress, eyes shut tight: my headstone, bedframe.

I imagine hot ground, popping knuckles, falling sinking sank. The only thing now, I can’t quite explain, is why fish float in their tank.