One morning the sick old dog stopped spitting yellow.
	Its fur (the sparse remainder) fell out.
	Its skin (dry, wrinkled, stiff like leather) turned yellow.
	Its eyes turned yellow, too (dark pupils floating in
bowl of stirring urine.)  Its eyes sealed off from the rest of
the head. Above the drying mouth they stopped leaking yellow.  Its
eyes began to bulge, as if preparing to burst like buds (the bloom
of  illness) or seedpods (the spread of disease.)
	Teeth, long since yellowed, rattled to the floor.  Falling
sound like little pebbles.  The angel of illness manifests as smell,
acting olfactory theatre.  The dog's sole soliloquoy is the stink of
terminal disease. 
	Any excuse to use the word terminal.
	Any excuse to make something sicken, to give its death
to the colours and sounds.  Anything that adds to the corpus
of enumerated volumes.