Closure of a sort

This morning as I came down from letting the chicken's out at the Blue House, with Irie and Mojo racing before me, I tried to search out the odor, the possibly cadaver odor, somewhere near the studio. I had noticed something when I walked up, but being in a hurry, I didn't stop. It wasn't hard to find the source, and it was, as I had feared, Greystroke. I suspect that some beast had dragged him from a deeper recess under the studio deck - I wonder if he'd gone there to die? It was a good spot as he could have viewed any activity in the kitchen. I buried him in the overgrown garden under the butterfly bush. I brought him some marigolds.