Old friend, you have gone now where the others went before you. Your passing was sad not because you lived a bad life, but because it was so very good; as good as it gets in this world, in this body.
Sundays we would take walks on the land, silent knowing passing between us. Dips in the pond and rolling in the fresh grass were your joy. Your body was sleek and young and you ran faster than the wind. But time plays tricks on us all, old friend.
Your final hours were harder on me than they were on you. When you died I helped them carry you out. Two weeks later, I got a call. I carried my grief home and placed it in a container with your ashes. There it remains.
I am sure you run in some mighty fine fields now.