Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being present at your own funeral, as I am now?
Impossible! For you are alive!
But I? I am dead!
There lies my body, prone and stiff, uncoffined, whilst the grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns the sod which is to hide me away forever.
Or so he thinks.
Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a grave?
Why? Because minister though he be, he is, or was my master; and my murderer.
Murderer did I say? Was it murder to kill a dog?
For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?
I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For this bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. He kicked me, and I died.