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by Richard Brautigan
When I got there they were burying the lion in the back yard again. As usual, it was a hastily dug grave, not really large enough to hold the lion and dug with a maximum of incompetence and they were trying to stuff the lion into a sloppy little hole.
The lion as usual took it quite stoically. Having been buried at least fifty times during the last two years, the lion had gotten used to being buried in the back yard.
I remember the first time they buried him. He didn't know what was happening. He was a younger lion, then, and was frightened and confused, but now he knew what was happening because he was an older lion and had been buried so many times.
He looked vaguely bored as they folded his front paws across his chest and started throwing dirt in his face.
It was basically hopeless. The lion would never fit the hole. It had never fit a hole in the back yard before and it never would. They just couldn't dig a hone big enough to bury that lion in.
"Hello," I said. "The holes too small."
"Hello," they said, "No, it isn't."
This had been our standard greeting now for two years.
I stood there and watched them for an hour or so struggling desperately to bury the lion, but they were only able to bury of him before they gave up in disgust and stood around trying to blame each other for not making the hole big enough.
"Why don't you put a garden in next year? I said. "This soil looks like it might grow some good carrots."
They didn't think that was very funny.
Richard Brautigan
Revenge of the Lawn: Stories 1962-1970
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