Lament of the abandoned dog

At the bottom of the old shelter, in a wooden doghouse, for two years I've been purging for having believed too much in you.
Every day I wait for you, certain you'll come, every night I fall asleep without you.

What happened that June 16th, happy as you were.
I remember you whistling and singing as you packed my bags and tied me up in front of this church.

Your absence weighs on me and every day is so long.

My body's exhausted and my heart's moping, I've no taste for anything, and I'm getting so ugly that no one will ever want to adopt me.

You've put me on chains or locked me up, you've left me days without food or water, I've slept many a night in my kennel without you, paralyzed, stiff with cold.

But if you come back, we'll leave together, we'll walk together through the prison-like door that I don't want to see again and in which, alas, I've crushed so much blackness.

There my dream ends as I see the keeper and the vet in the distance, they enter the enclosure and their pale faces tell us a lot about what they're bringing us.

I'm happy, you see, because in a few moments I'm going to forget everything and, just like two years ago, I'll fall asleep on you, my one and only great friend, I'll sleep forever thanks to euthanasia.

To all you humans, I say a prayer.
Killing me as a child would have pained my mother, but it would have been better for me this way.

And you wouldn't have had to do it today.