The Day the Dog Died

The warm sun brighten the early morning sky as a cool northern breeze tickled the leaves. The first few days of summer didn't always start this beautifully.

"Kinky," I called and stepped off the porch. My Husky usually jumped out of his doghouse, tongue and tail wagging, and raced to my side. Why he waited in his doghouse until called had always been a mystery to me. His personality, perhaps.

"Kinky." Never had to call him twice before. I strolled to his doghouse. His black and white fur curled up just inside the opening. "Kinky." No movement. Something had to be wrong. A closer look. "Kinky?" Still no movement. I bent down and reached into his house built by me many years ago shortly after Kinky came home in my arms from the shelter. Cold fur.

I did not know how much I loved that dog until that moment. Men are not supposed to cry. But tears rolled down my face. I looked up into the sky and thought, What a beautiful day to die.

People would think me stupid to feel such emotion over an animal. But Kinky stood by my side for ten years. He never complained. He never got mad. He never showed me anything but love.

I went to the garage and got a shovel. Where would Kinky want to be buried? Out under the old oak tree? Down by the river? Up among the pine trees? As much as he loved roaming the small farm, somewhere close to the house felt best. His spirt would alway be near.

Under the oak tree had to be the place. I drove my shovel into the ground. Good times floated through my mind with each shovelful of dirt. Kinky loved jumping into the back of my old pickup and catching the wind as we cruised down the road. He loved meeting and greeting people although his bark scared many, he just wanted to be petted and loved.

When the neighbor kids strapped him to a sled one winter, Kinky loved it. He pulled them around for hours. Thank God Kinky had the neighbor kids to play with rather than me, an old bachelor.

With the hole dug, I stumble back to Kinky's doghouse and pulled him out. It appeared he had died in his sleep. A good way to die. No suffering. A heart attack, maybe? I carried him to the hole and gently lowered him in.

"Dear Heavenly Father," I prayed. "Thank You for the many years of enjoyment You have given me with this wonderful dog. Thank You for letting him be part of my life. I'll aways be grateful to You, O Lord, for that."

I slowly poured dirt over the dog until he was completely covered. "Good-bye, sweet dog." I placed the last shovelful of dirt on the grave.

I trudged to the garage and leaned the shovel in its place. I didn't feel like going to the local restaurant for my usual cup of coffee. But I told myself life had to go on. I ambled to my pickup and reached for the tailgate to lower it so Kinky could jump in as he had done every morning and stopped myself. Life would never be the same.

Author's Note: This short piece of fiction is dedicated to the Siberian Husky, King Alphonso (Alphie), we had when I was growing up. This story is not about his death, but of all the dogs we had, he was my favorite.