It pads through the forest, toward the sound of weeping children. Just before it reaches the small clearing, it eases onto a mound of spent leaves, yellow with the season. Two young boys crouch in the dappled half light, covered in moss and bits of soil. They have been digging. The older child kneels down, carefully placing a bundle into a tiny hole.

“Goodbye. We’re sure gonna miss you.”

He carefully begins to fill the hole, meticulously picking out bits of rock and clay, casting them gently aside. His brother looks on, continuing to mourn noisily. The hole slowly vanishes.

“It really was an accident.”

Grimy hands rub at tears yielding little faces splotched with mud and emotion. The last handful of dirt is sprinkled – the hole is gone. Rising slowly, the children glance briefly at one another before racing into the surrounding trees.

The dog approaches the small grave, briefly bowing its head before scratching at the soil. Life is painful. And life is beautiful. But most of all, life is hungry.