Alyda Faber – p. 156

Brother and Sister

His pets prove themselves against the elements, predators, disease—or die. His cat did not survive the introduction of a dog, for instance. Our cats watch snow falling, or wind blowing the branches,

from marble-topped rads. They leave the house only in taxis. The old and sick are given analgesics. The side of the litter box cut out for ease of access. They sleep in our beds, have too many toys,

use scratching posts. He knows what it’s like to end animal suffering. Followed a trail of blood into the driving shed after an older brother ran over a tabby with the tractor: gave it a well-aimed blow

to the head with a wrench. Years later he offered to kill a friend’s family dog (cheaper that way), though the offer was declined. We schedule death by appointment and house call. The old cat’s last hours

are spent in front of the fireplace; she flees the room when the vet enters with a kit and a box. Sedated, she leans into death, her body a floppy toy with uneven stuffing, eye-open sleep.

A week later, we pick up the ashes in a name-plated mini-casket. His old dog dies in its own time, sick for a few days, not eating or drinking. After trying to bark several times, as if announcing

some arrival, he bites down on a shadow. My brother wraps him in an old leather coat, within hours buries him in the frozen ground so the coy dogs won’t get him.