My dog has died.

　　I buried him in the garden

　　next to a rusted¹ old machine.

　　Some day I'll join him right there，

　　but now he's gone with his shaggy coat，

　　his bad manners and his cold nose，

　　and I， the materialist²， who never believed

　　in any promised heaven in the sky

　　for any human being，

　　I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.

　　Yes， I believe in a heaven for all dogdom

　　where my dog waits for my arrival

　　waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

　　Ai， I'll not speak of sadness here on earth，

　　of having lost a companion

　　who was never servile.

　　His friendship for me， like that of a porcupine³

　　withholding⁴ its authority，

　　was the friendship of a star， aloof⁵，

　　with no more intimacy⁶ than was called for，

　　with no exaggerations：

　　he never climbed all over my clothes

　　filling me full of his hair or his mange，

　　he never rubbed up against my knee

　　like other dogs obsessed⁷ with sex.

　　No， my dog used to gaze at me，

　　paying me the attention I need，

　　the attention required

　　to make a vain person like me understand

　　that， being a dog， he was wasting time，

　　but， with those eyes so much purer than mine，

　　he'd keep on gazing at me

　　with a look that reserved for me alone

　　all his sweet and shaggy life，

　　always near me， never troubling me，

　　and asking nothing.

　　Ai， how many times have I envied his tail

　　as we walked together on the shores of the sea

　　in the lonely winter of Isla Negra

　　where the wintering birds filled the sky

　　and my hairy dog was jumping about

　　full of the voltage of the sea's movement：

　　my wandering dog， sniffing⁸ away

　　with his golden tail held high，

　　face to face with the ocean's spray.

　　Joyful⁹， joyful， joyful，

　　as only dogs know how to be happy

　　with only the autonomy

　　of their shameless spirit.

　　There are no good-byes for my dog who has died，

　　and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

　　So now he's gone and I buried him，

　　and that's all there is to it.

 

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