Elegy and Eulogy for a dog that died in our yard

I didn't realize that you'd been killed --
and in my yard, no less,--until the man
who volunteered to mow the lawn in trade
"for any small donation to our church
youth fund," came to the door and said, "I got
it done to edge of yard, then came upon
this yellow lab a'layin' there. I lost
my lunch; I'm goin' home." The young man jerked
his thumb toward edge of yard beyond the pole
(electric pole). I handed him a check
made out to Baptist church where he led youth,
then followed where he gestured. Sure enough,
a full-grown dog lay dead between the road
and grove of sassafras that lines the edge
of our northeastern acre. What to do?

The owner surely'd combed the roadsides, called
his pet by name ("Here, Stella! Biggun! Boy!");
or whistled even. Nothing ... Buzzards? ... No.

And three days passed. By now, the beast began
to smell; the odor unmistakable,
of death. The stench was overpowering.
I had to figure something out. That box
of baking soda -- would it help? I held
my breath and dumped it on the carcass. For
a while it worked, and I could water plants,
weed eat and gather fallen branches. Soon,
the smell returned. This time, I bought some lime
(some pickling lime --would that work just as well?)
and emptied it upon the rotting flesh
that melted under maggot mandibles.

The grass grew higher, hid the animal
from passing traffic. County-road men had
no leave to move it since it wasn't on
the road(!). Today, it's lying still (two ways
of looking at that phrase). More soda's bought
and waiting ... Waiting ... Lessons to be learned?

If there's a next time, push the dog into
the street and call the road department.
c -patlaster 09