Fences 10.10.2013

When I was a kid, I dug up a set of bones by a brambled chainlink fence behind our trailer. Disregarding the remnants of matted fur and collar tag that read DUTCHESS, I took them to my dad, sure that I had found a dinosaur. “Take them back,” he said, then held my hands under hot water and scrubbed them with Dial.


The bones went back, but I kept part of the ribcage. I liked the way the smooth edges felt against my palm.


When we moved to Vermont, the ribs went with me, tucked into the front pocket of my backpack.


It wasn't until later that year, as I scratched my cat's belly, that I realized what I had done. I slid poor Dutchess' ribs from a box beneath my bed, and carried them to a stone wall in the woods behind my house. There, I dug a hole and dropped them in. The ribs thudded against the dense soil, echoing off the trees and sending a shiver up my spine. I covered them, gingerly, with soil and pine needles and pulled a flat stones from the wall to place on top. There, Dutchess' ribs were laid to rest with an epitaph that read:

DUTCHESS

Born in Alabama

Ribs in Vermont

R.I.P.