I will tell you my secret. When dogs die, angels fly. One day on my hill, burying my dog, it came to me, behind my tears,

this strange and sappy thought,

a bolt of truth.

When dogs die, angels fly.

Up above, like planes at O’Hare,

the angels circle,

waiting for the call,

that a dog has died,

their light goes on,

from red to green,

they grow their teeth,

and furry coats, and

tails and claws,

and zoom to earth

to live with us, and fill our cups

with love,

and touch our hearts,

with light.

No need to be sad, they whisper,

in my ear.

When a dog dies, an angel is born,

and flies and flies.

Until the next dog dies.

When a dog dies, I used to cry,

and still do, some, but not for long.

I can only smile,

when an angel flies.