“Life’s a grim business, Jack,” Jack’s father said, leaning on the shovel. Shaking a cigarette out of a pack from his shirt pocket, he lit it and looked his handiwork over.
The hole was deep enough. For a moment Jack and his father stood silently in the sun, his father smoking meditatively, Jack trying not to look at the thing at his feet.
“I’m going to leave you to bury him,” Jack’s father finally said, tossing the cigarette butt into the hole. “I dug the hole for you, now I want you to bury him. He was your dog, you should be the one to do it.”