Funeral For A Friend's Dog

I had to bury my friend's dog today. He left her with me for a few weeks while he started a new job and new life up in Syracuse. He planned to take her back as soon as he got his living situation settled. The dog was a bit of a handful, but all in all it was a pleasure having her here. She was very good natured, quiet and well mannered, reasonably compliant, and always full of joy. That was in no small part because she had full run of this property. I let her be a free range dog. She would trot off into the property and poke around, sometimes for hours on end, but would always come home chipper and excited to tell me all about her adventures. Her owner would have preferred that I always kept her under my watchful eye, but that just wasn't practical unless I kept her cooped up in the house at all times. I didn't have the heart to do that. I knew how much she loved trapsing around the grounds unabated.

The one thing I knew, though, was to make sure she was back in the house before sundown. I didn't want her out and about after dark. Last night before the sun went down I was going to shut her in, but let her out quickly for one last potty break. It's a good thing I did, because she both pooped and peed while she was out there. She then dutifully went back in the house with a big smile on her face. As I was getting ready to go upstairs and sit down in front of the TV for the evening, I heard a sound on the front porch. At first I thought it was the dog hopping up on one of the chairs, but I looked out and she wasn't there. I checked the rest of the house and she was nowhere to be found. I then realized it had been the sound of the screen door as she nosed her way past it. That was odd. She never snuck out of the house that way. Never.

I went back out to the front porch and I could hear her dog tag jingling out in the front yard. I called to her as I stepped out to fetch her. I could see through the bushes that she was had gone out into the road. She was just standing there. I shouted to her as I walked briskly to grab her and bring her back. That was when the car came by. I didn't see it hit her, but I heard it. It doesn't sound like what you expect. It sounded like a big, heavy bag of plastic pieces dropping onto the ground. But I knew what the sound was. I knew what had happened. It was dusk, which makes things hard to see in the first place. She was standing just beyond the knoll my house is perched on. The driver would not have been able to see her until it was too late.

I saw her lying by the side of the road. The driver sped off. As I walked out onto the pavement I looked down his way with my hands over my head like WTF! But then I did see he was slowing to turn and come back. I went over to the dog and knelt down by her side. She was still alive. She was panting, but otherwise lying motionless. As always, she was quiet and stoic. As the driver was slowly making his way back to us, I had to pull the dog off onto the shoulder or we'd both get hit if someone else came along. She did not let out a yelp or make any other sounds or gestures as I moved her. This was not a good sign. She was hurt so bad she was beyond pain.

The driver finally got back up to where we were, stopped, and got out of the car. He was young-ish, about my size, and he felt absolutely horrible. He couldn't stop apologizing. I assured him it wasn't his fault. The dog was in the road at dusk in a blind spot. He wasn't to blame. But he still kept saying how sorry he was and how regretful that it had happened. We both pretty well knew that the dog wasn't going to make it, but neither of us knew what to do. I asked if he would call 911, but he said his phone was dead. All he could do was keep apologizing. I finally got him to be on his way. Now alone with the dog, I felt utterly helpless. I knew there was really nothing I could do, but I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. With no other option I ran back to the house, grabbed phone, returned to the dog's side, and called 911. The operator said that there was nothing they could do except file a police report. That was the last thing on my mind.

As I lay beside the poor dog I expected it was only a matter of time before she would pass, but I didn't know how long that would be, and I felt like I had to do more than just sit there. I got back on my phone and was finally able to get ahold of the Cornell Vet School emergency room. I figured the dog was probably beyond saving, but I had to at least try. They said I could bring her there, but warned me that it would be hundreds of dollars just to take her in, and probably many more hundreds to get any kind of prognosis. I couldn't let myself think of money at a time like this. I would figure that out later.

I got my car, pulled beside the road, and got the tailgate open. As I approached her she was trying to lift her head and look over my way. That was a good sign that she maybe was coming out of shock and might not be hurt as bad as I thought. I was afraid I would only injure her further by picking her up, but there was no option. I scooped up her poor broken body, and again there was no yelp, no whimper, no flinching, no reaction of any kind. I didn't know what to think. I just laid her in the back of the car and sped off.

As I was driving in as hurriedly as I could, about half way there, the dog finally made a sound. It was kind of a half bark, half cry kind of noise. I spoke out to her, saying I was taking her to get help and to sit tight as best she could. I didn't hear another sound after that. A minute or two later it dawned on me that this could have been her death wail. I got a cold feeling that when I got to the emergency room and opened the hatch back that I would find her limp and lifeless. It was a sad and slow drive back home with my friend's deceased dog in the back of my car. Many thoughts were going through my head. I was a little relieved that it was over, but I was sad that I would never see her smiling face again as she came prancing back home after a couple hours roaming freely in nature. I also worried about telling her owner what had happened. I didn't think he would take it well, him trusting me with her wellbeing only for her to meet a violent end while under my care. And finally I thought about what I would do when I got back home. It was too dark to bury her now. It would have to wait until morning. She would lie in state on the front porch for the night. I pulled the car up onto the front lawn just outside the porch door that she had snuck out. For a burial shroud I used the sheet off the bed that she and her human slept on while he was staying here. I got her body wrapped up tight and let her rest.

I knew the next thing to do was to notify her owner. The only thing worse that telling someone his dog is dead is not telling them. The only means I had to contact him was Facebook messenger. It took me a while to compose the note, and longer to hit send. I knew that at this time of evening he would probably see it right away. I braced myself for his response. To my surprise he took it very well. He even told me he was sorry I had to go through that, and said not to feel bad. It was a great sign of maturity on his part. We exchanged a couple more notes, but then that was it. I sat with the dog for quite a while, but eventually knew I had to go back into the house. I watched TV for a bit to try to get my mind off it before going to bed. I watched the last episode of "Fallout." It was somehow apropos.

The next morning I knew I had to put the dog in the ground first thing. That's not the kind of thing you can put off. I have a pet cemetery where I've buried a number of cats. I located it way at the back of the property for privacy, seclusion, and austerity. I knew this was where the dog had to go. It also happened to be a place where she most liked to roam around. I walked out with shovel in hand. It's not easy digging a hole in the ground. It's not like you see on TV. It's hard labor. Once I got through the layer of roots it was somewhat easier going, except when I hit rocks, which was a lot. It took a long time to dig a hole big enough and deep enough to fit her. It was a lot of time to be alone with my thoughts. The songs "A Town Without Pity" and "Jack Straw" kept going through my head.

Finally I decided the grave was ready. I walked all the way back to the house. It's a long walk. I went out onto the front porch and scooped up her body. By now she was stiff. I was expecting that, but it's still a grim sensation. I held her in my arms, walked her thought the house, and then started the long walk back to the cemetery. As I walked across the field, holding her weight in my arms the whole way, I noted what a beautiful day it was, warm and clear with a bright blue sky. I considered how beautiful this property is, and how she was lucky to be able to enjoy it without restriction for the short time she was here. In that moment I felt the presence of God looking down at me. Looking down at us. I had never felt that before. I'm still not sure what to make of it. In the moment I just kept walking. She wasn't a terribly big dog, but neither was she little, and it was a lot to carry all that distance. But I knew I couldn't stop. No matter how much my muscles ached and my back hurt, I had to keep going. This was a funeral procession. It needed to progress with formality.

I finally arrived at the grave site. I knelt down and gingerly laid her body in the ground. I stayed there for a moment and said a few words. All too soon it was time to cover her up. The first shovelful of dirt is the hardest. Tossing dirt on the body of a loved one feels wrong. Perhaps it's the finality of it all. There's no turning back from this. But it gets easier with every subsequent shovelful until you get to the point where the odiousness sets in of scraping all the last bits of dirt up and making the site clean and tidy. When it was all done I picked up my shovel and headed back. On the way through the woods I got stung by bees both right at the base of my spine and on the back of my head. I don't know what that was all about.

But as I walked back across the open field I pondered the nature of loss. People ask how there can be a loving God if he makes us suffer pain. But that's part of life. We are meant to experience the unpleasantness of it. It causes us to reflect. Reflection is essential to a healthy life, and yet something we often neglect to do. But you can't go through loss without reflecting on what it is you've just lost. The grief brings that on. And paradoxically loss inspires gratitude. It makes us grateful for what we have, and to cherish the things we have not yet lost. In this time of sorrow and remorse, I sit here astutely aware of all that I am thankful for.

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