After I bury my dog I believe
in God. It isn't easy, so it is.
I'm on my knees at Caesar's grave. My face
is wet with sweat and tears. He didn't just
die, he was killed. He wasn't just killed, he
was hit by a car and run over so
many times he looked like a ragged old
rug when I found him this morning. I stepped
out on the porch, expecting to see him
lying there, waiting for me, rising then
kowtowing 'til I reach to pet him and

then run from him to get him on his feet
and forget that he's a dog and I'm a
human, or whatever he thinks I am
and whatever he thinks he is, if he
thinks—I think so. Anyway, I can think
for both of us. Then I jump from the porch

in to the side yard and he follows and
leaps at me, so I pick up a stick or
rock or fallen apple and hold it up
for him to see, then reach back and throw it
as far as I can, and he's away with
the arcing of my arm, moving so fast
to track down and mouth what I release of

me, I guess it is. That was yesterday
and every day since he was a pup and
could run without falling. To see him dead
in the double yellow lines of the road
in front of our house makes me feel that God
is telling me to stay and obey. But

the same voice I didn't hear, the one loud
with the sight of my mutilated friend,
calls me to the duty of wading in
-to the road to bring Caesar back. It's not
difficult until I get there—I peel
him from the black top and he's still one piece
and most of the blood's already dried and
though his eyes are open he's not looking
at me. He must be looking at God but

I can't see Him except in my dead friend
and even then He's invisible and
even then I can describe Him but I
don't dare, or there's too much brightness blending
with everything I've ever seen before.