Sometime after the situation is resolved, when he's sobered and covered in the blood of his attackers, he thinks about going back for it. The hellhound was loyal. Kept him from being alone. He never checked if the twitching stopped or if it's still suffering for its companionship, and he feels... strangely sentimental about it. He might not have time to bury it, but burning it seems kinder than leaving it to rot. Maybe the bourbon hasn't completely left him, because for a moment that actually matters to him.

“Dammit," he sighs as reality creeps back from his brief reprieve. There's probably going to be more after him before they get the picture, and it's nostalgic in a way that he hasn't experienced in a while. He looks like the easiest target, but he reasons he'll have some time before they try again. Enough to start a fire.