The Lost Generation's Serpent
I buried Shamus in the garden behind the monastery where the ivy had grown thick enough to hide the cracks in the stone. He was fourteen, the last dog I had ever been good to. He died in his sleep, the way old things die when you are not looking. I found him in the morning, lying on his side in the straw, one ear still twitching as if he were chasing something across a field I could not see. I...
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