"No Mo' Dogs"

Riley was a mangy mongrel and my very best friend. It might come as a surprise to you, but I feel I learned more and gained more form Riley’s passing than from Riley’s life.

My parents weren’t your typical parents who try to sugarcoat things. They didn’t tell me about some magical farm up in the sky, how Riley was in a better place or any b.s. like that. They were Catholic people, don’t get me wrong, but animals? There’s just no way that there’s room up in heaven for all the animals to go, too. So they didn’t pretend like they thought there was.

No, instead they explained that if we took Riley into the veterinary’s office, she would likely be sent to the glue factory and turned into a paste. If I were lucky, I might get a bit of her back in my school supplies. That wasn’t so appealing to me.

The other option was that we could bury her right there on our own property—the law allowed for animal, not human, burial on private grounds, another difference between humans and animals. That sounded a lot more peaceful and serene to me, so I opted for the second choice. “Are you sure?” Pa asked. “If we keep Riley here we’ll expect you to dig the hole.”

When he said it, my throat went dry. Dig a hole to dump my best friend into? It seemed heartless and inhumane. However, my parents had described my options and, while I didn’t like the idea of having to be directly involved in the digging and burial of my dear mutt, I liked the idea of her body being melted down to create adhesive even less. I chose the lesser of the two evils.

In doing so, I got to pick out the plot for her resting place. I chose a spot of our yard out by the luscious sycamore trees that dictated our property line. Back when she was full of life, Riley would often dart from the back porch door right out to that spot. Pa said it was because the local wildlife was very active in that section—he had uncovered hedgehog holes on multiple occasions there—but I had a hunch it was something more. Our neighbors had an old German Shepard who was two years Riley’s senior (though still kicking at the time of our dog’s passing) and I like to think she had a thing for him.

As far as dogs go, he was a handsome one and there was a cool, carefree air about him. He’d spent the better part of his life working hard in the drugs and narcotics unit of the local police force. Since retiring, he soaked up the lazy life of a country dog living mostly on the porch next door. Still, he never failed to leave his mark on the robust sycamore that straddled the property line between the two dogs’ territories. Riley always seemed intrigued to check out what Old Bronx—the German Shepard—had gotten up to as well as to leave her own scent intertwining with his on the roots of the tree. It seemed fitting to my young understanding of romance to leave Riley somewhere her star-crossed lover could still pick up her scent.

And so it was. I spent an entire two days digging that ditch. It was arduous labor for an eight year-old. My shoulders quickly grew tired and blisters broke out on my hands, eventually callousing over. The entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking about Riley. About how much this hurt me, but how much more it must hurt her, lying there wrapped up in a big black trash bag.

The days were growing hotter and the longer I took, the more she would decompose, and the stronger her new smell would grow. I had to emphasize “new smell” in my mind as I didn’t want to remember that retched scent as the smell of my dear friend. No, in life, Riley smelled of adventure—fresh cut grass, dried up mud, and a dead rodent from time to time, when she found an interesting one to roll herself about in. Sometimes she came home reeking of skunk and we would have to leave her outdoors until Ma could get the right ingredients to give her a bath and rid her of the horrible stench. I remember thinking back to the skunked days while I dug that grave and realizing I’d take it back in a heartbeat—I’d even let Riley curl up right next to me in bed. Anything was bearable next to the growing stink of death.

I thought about lots of things as I dug; I had nothing better to do. I wondered to myself about the circumstances of it all. I wondered what would have happened if my dear friend had passed during the winter and I had school to attend. Surely, my parents wouldn’t have kept me home to learn this life lesson, would they? I didn’t think so.

Ma had always bantered on about the importance of education, and, to be honest with you, I couldn’t believe Ma was allowing this whole ordeal to happen as it was. Occasionally I’d catch her eye as she stood in the kitchen window, staring out at my work under the sycamore tree, and I swear she looked distraught—horrified, even—over what was unfolding. But she never said a word about it to me, or to Pa…at least not that I heard.

I remember thinking about my little sister Tilly in those days too. For some reason, I wasn’t concerned with what she might be thinking in the moment—Do four year-olds wonder about increasingly deeper ditches in their backyard?—instead I wondered at how lacking her life would be without a furry friend. Pa made it really clear after Riley died that he didn’t want “no mo’ dogs around our house.” He said they stunk and added a lot of work to the mix. Plus, they cost a lot of money to feed and take care of. No, he wouldn’t have it; he swore there’d be “no mo’ dogs” and my heart hurt because I knew all we’d be missing out on.

How would we stay safe? On the logistical side, I knew having a dog brought work, but it also brought security. I felt comfortable, even late at night in the darkness of our old creaky house, because I knew Riley was always listening out for dangerous. I knew she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

But, if we’re being honest, I think I was more concerned with How would we stay happy? I had been a baby when Riley came into our lives and so I couldn’t imagine a world without a furry companion. I knew what it meant to be happy and, most times, that happiness came from Riley. Did Tilly know how to be happy? Would she ever really feel it without a dog around? I just didn’t think it could be possible.

With those big questions in my little head, I dug and I dug. That grave needed to be dug and it seemed I was the only one who would do it. Pa said it was to teach me one of life’s hardest lessons, first hand. But I had a hunch it was something else. I had a hunch that he was too cowardly to do it himself. I wasn’t going to let my fears and feelings about the gruesomeness of digging a grave get in the way of a rightful resting place for Riley. No sir, she deserved so much and I was determined to give it to her.

So, that’s how it went. Eventually, the hole was deep enough—I had Pa confirm so much—and I pulled my dear Riley across the lawn and into the pit. I thought Pa might have helped me, but he just stepped back and watched. He said all the hard work had been mine and he wouldn’t step in at the last minute to take credit for it. Riley should know I, and only I, had placed her there. It was odd—until Pa put it that way, I had been filled with dread at the idea of dragging her stiff, heavy body into the grave but once he assigned it meaning it felt true.

I puffed out my little chest and heaved with all my might the ominous black trash bag towards the pit. I had to stop a couple of times to catch my breath before getting her into the grave, but when she landed with a thump I felt accomplished. I stood up tall and wiped the sweat from the back of my neck. Pa gave a small, but well-deserved, nod of recognition and said “There ya go! Now get to covering her up.” I watched him turn and walk away without so much as a pat on the back or a word of grievance for my best friend. That’s just the way things were with Pa.

It felt like a moment that deserved to be honored so I wiggled my way down the slippery side of the hole and wedged myself in next to my dead dog, placing my feet down carefully so as not to step on her. I momentarily considered peeling back the bag to take one last look at my dear friend’s furry face, but stopped myself short with the horrifying thought of potential mites or maggots eating their way into her. I resolved to simply say goodbye with the plastic still carefully wedged between us. I kneeled down and cautiously laid myself on top and extended my limbs around her, engulfing Riley in one last bear hug.

When I stood back up, I reached into my front pocket and pulled out the two dried up treats I still had stuffed in there. I always carried a handful of kibbles for my pal, but I knew I wouldn’t need them any longer. I ceremoniously threw them on top of the bag, then started tossing the cool dirt down and covering her. I learned that day that it take far less time to fill than to dig a hole. Within an hour, it was as if the whole ordeal was covered up and forgotten.

Of course, the dirt had been stirred up under that tree and nature noticed it. Worms that would usually be buried deep down were crawling in and out of the little mound of mud and birds that were uncommon to our yard were swooping down to enjoy them.

Riley was gone, but nature and life carried on. The rest of the yard adapted, perhaps even thrived, in her absence. I didn’t know it at that time, but Ma had huge patches of perennial flowers that bloomed later that year—and all years following—because Riley wasn’t around to dig them up or tread on the delicate buds. Other critters like rabbits and frogs took interest in our safe, shaded plot and I was finally able to learn more about their habits and behaviors once Riley wasn’t there to send them scurrying.

Of course, I missed my mutt every day. I begged Pa to let me get a new dog. When Tilly was old enough to plead alongside of me, I roped her into the battle as well, but it was no use. Pa’s mind was set. “There’ll be no mo’ dogs!” His sharp, husk voice made us sure of it.

Even though there were “no mo’ dogs” around our place for the rest of my childhood, I shared with Tilly the stories of the many adventures and misadventures Riley and I had gotten into. She always smiled and laughed along at all the right places and, eventually, she even took to missing and mourning Riley much in the same way I did. It’s funny—we don’t realize how much simple events and simple relationships will affect us. When Riley was around, I never considered not having her. At the time I was digging her grave, I never considered I looked back on that and derive meaning from it. But nowadays I do all those things.

Now I’m a grown man and Tilly is a grown woman. She still talks about Riley in a way that sometimes makes me question if she did remember riding around on her soft back as a baby, me holding her up as Riley moved along ever so slowly. Back when we were kids, she told me she couldn’t remember any of those things herself so I told and re-told the memories to her until we both started believing they were her own. She ended up loving Riley just as deeply as I did—perhaps more, in a certain way. Tilly was able to love the creature after she was already gone, making it a lot easier to reconcile her absence.

I, on the other hand, had loved and lost. I had felt so deeply the weight of the responsibility of that love. I had followed through on my friendship with Riley until the very end. I had never bowed out. I don’t say that in comparison to my sister—no, Tilly was too young to ever have a chance to bow out—I’ve simply come to make a distinction in my mind. I don’t think many people take their friendships as seriously as I do. I believe that when we agree to be companions with someone, we’re agreeing to forever. A life sentence.

That’s what I’ve had with Riley, at the least. Pa never let us get another dog and, even though I’ve now been out from under his roof for twenty years, I haven’t let myself get another dog either. Riley was special. Riley was for life. I admire people who can take the love they once had for their first pet and pass it on time and time again. I wish I could do that; Tilly can do that. But each time I walk past a mutt on the street, each time I catch eyes with a homeless pup I think of Riley. I see her running, carefree, through the meadow out yonder of my family’s plot. I see her rolling around, joyful, in a patch of cold mud on a hot summer’s day. I see that black lifeless trash bag at the bottom of a pit.

It’s when I remember the pit that I always walk away. I can’t do that again. Sometimes, I curse Pa for ruining animal companionship for me. If not for the digging under that shady sycamore tree perhaps I would have loved and loved again, like Tilly has. But that time I spent digging and reconciling Riley’s passing changed me. Other times, I thank Pa for the harsh life lesson. He thought he was teaching me about death, but that’s not what I took away from it. Burying my best friend taught me about connection, what it means to be a real friend. I give all of myself to my friendship, until the bitter end. And even then the bond will live on—like it does with Riley.