The dog played in the snow all afternoon. When we called it in, it 

was shivering, and it took hours of warm towel rubbings before it settled 

down. Then it slept like a baby. Then it didn't get up in the morning

we were worried. Finally my mother went to take its temperature and 

that's when we realized it was dead. We were all so sad we didn't know 

what to do. Dad said we should bury it in the backyard, with a full 

ceremony. So we dug a hole and decided on some scripture to read. Janet

picked out some music to play. The next morning we went out to look at 

the grave and it was all torn up and Roscoe was gone. There were footprints 

in the snow, so we followed them. They went on for several blocks until 

we found him playing by a lake with several other dogs. He wouldn't come 

when we called him. We had to chase him and tackle him before we could lead 

him home. When we got him in the house he was sweet as ever. We fed him and 

he cozied up on the couch next to us. We still didn't know how we could 

have mistaken him for dead. Weeks went by as normal. Then, just as spring 

was coming on, Roscoe was hit by a car right in front of out house. This 

time we were sure he was dead and buried him in the previous hole we had 

not filled in. This time without scripture or music. We just threw him in 

and covered it up with the old dirt. A week went by and then one day in 

the schoolyard at recess, there he was, as pert and lively as ever before. 

I called to him and he came to me. I was so glad to see him I didn't know 

what to do. My parents were happy, too, though a little confused. We 

welcomed him home, fed him mightily, and played with him as much as he 

liked. We thought he might live forever. But slowly we forgot about that

and he was just Roscoe our old dog whom we took for granted and barely 

remembered to feed. He fell ill one day and we didn't even call the vet 

because, I guess, we thought he would live forever. But he didn't. He 

died a week later and this time we didn't even bother to throw him in the 

hole, so sure were we that he would come back to life. We just laid him 

on the back porch and waited for the miracle to happen a third time. 

Flies gathered and fnally he turned to dust. We swept the back porch 

as we always had before. Roscoe disappeared forever among the flowerpots

and old tin cans, saying goodbye to this world one last time. 

James Tate