All Good Dogs…

11:34PM, February 20th, 2007

Shortly after my dad came home from work today I heard him bounce up the stairs. Standing firmly in the middle of my doorway he asked, quickly, “What are you doing?” I had barely opened my mouth when he continued, “Want to help me bury Jackson?” I paused. The conflicting messages weren’t uncommon. My dad was animated with high eyebrows but the words he spoke lacked an underlying confidence. He hid how upset he was with this bouncy exterior.

My dad had come home and discovered my dog of 13 years, Jackson, had died at the base of the stairs where my father exits the garage each day after arriving home. I joined him as we went into the garage to get a shovel and large iron rod used for breaking up clay. I saw Jackson lying as if he were asleep in the shade of the house. My dad leant over to pat him and call him a good boy with the shovel in his hand, as if he was expecting him to wake up and lick his hand.

“It’ll need to be deep,” my dad said as he scouted for a place in the ungrassed, lower part of the yard. With his head down he quickly dug a large whole in the dirt and red and yellow clay. I stood and watched as my dad murmured “… it’s a shame” and “… so sad.” I turned and watched as my dad picked Jackson up from where he was lying and put him in the hole. My dad then apologied to him for the great dishonour he was about to commit and speedily covered the body with the heavy lumps. I took a step backwards so I could only see the black fur of his body being covered and not his head.

I got a plastic bag to put his uneaten food in, emptied the water bowl and took his food bowls into the laundry to wash with hot water and placed his collar on the steps.

Telling my Mother an hour or two later, my dad kept repeating his sentiments and my mother obsessively speculated on how he might have died. In his sleep, or heart attack. Cancer or other ailment. She said she’d call my brother.

I felt uneasy, mostly because I was happy and sad. I was sad that he was no longer bouncing around the backyard, but also because my parents were so focussed on his death. I knew I will remember the way he moved, fetched and licked long after I have forgotten the image of his grave. I will remember his bark, the way he would lick your face when he held him, and even the the times he ran away. I will also remember that he lived for 13 years, was well loved by his family and despite fading vision and hearing in the last year, he was always an active and happy dog. In his death, the memory of his life is stronger.

Christmas Morning

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A twenty-two year old ex-student, musician, performer with a degree in creative arts with little idea what to do with it.


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