To Many Roots Have Grown There
Title: To Many Roots Have Grown There
Category: Devotion
Subject: Time; Death; Dog; Family
The Life and Death of a Baptist Preacher’s Family Dog, February 2001
FREDDIE
1986 - 2001
I buried our dog Freddie today - day before Valentine’s.
I buried him near the far edge of the back yard underneath some peach trees. It’s a pretty sight in the Spring Time. There are some big honeysuckle vines close by and when everything is in full bloom, it is beautiful. I should have known better though to bury him there - too many roots had grown in that spot and they made it difficult.
Fred and I first met in the Fall of ’86. I still vividly remember it. He just “showed up” on the carport of the pastorium one morning when our family lived and I pastored in rural White’s Chapel, Alabama. He was standing there in an old discarded appliance box when I walked out the door of the house. He couldn’t have been more than four or five months old. Clean and very healthy looking and white with big black splotches. He was shivering. Partly I guess from the combination of the morning chill and seeing a stranger.
Freddie seemed a little timid at first, but he soon was in my arms and then in our yard and then in our hearts. You have to understand that he would become like family. Our youngest child Karyl, who will soon be thirteen, was born the following February. I think Fred would have been 98 “doggie years” old his next birthday. Yes, he was a good ol’ dog. He was always wagging his tail and ready to play. No matter how he may have just been mistreated, he always came running when you called him; answering with a “yap of a bark” that said all is forgiven and everything is okay. A word to the wise: Don’t ever kick your dog; yell at him; throw rocks at him; or beat him, no matter what he has done or how loud and long he may bark in the middle of the night. He may trick you and live a long time before he dies and then you’ll have a whole bunch of regrets.
They say cats have “nine lives.” Freddie had ten. There were so many times that he would be missing for days and then one evening you’d see him limping back into the yard. He’d have some kind of look of trouble about him - either a wound, or a patch of fur missing, or a puncture wound of some type. I remember one time he had what looked like axle grease all over him. I figured he had been hit and rolled up under a truck or something. He was an original survivor. No television show can top what he’s been through.
I found Freddie in his doghouse when I went to check on him this morning. He was curled up like I’ve seen him a thousand times before. His nose was resting on his front paws and his back was arched so that his hind paws were turned up toward him almost covering his nose. I touched him.
We had let Fred run free while we lived in Alabama. When God moved our family to Talbotton, Georgia in 1989 I wondered to myself if we should take Freddie along. Well, I didn’t have to wonder long. All the kids: Kelly, Kyle, Klay, and Karyl wanted him to go with us. The boys were especially fond of him and like I said before, he was “family.” I was concerned that he’d get loose sometime during the trip so I got one of those yellow nylon ropes and tied him with it. I can still see him with some of that rope around his neck and the rest of it all piled around him in the floorboard of the U-Haul truck.
It didn’t take Fred long to get to know his new home and neighbors. I was constantly reminded of his visits in the neighborhood when someone would say something like, “Hey Preacher! I saw your dog over on “so and so” street this morning.”
During my three pastorates, our family has always lived, at one time or another, across the street, or the parking lot, from the church. Living so close allowed Freddie to “attend church” without any special prodding to do so. Usually he always beat us to the church doors. Although he never did “get in” on a worship service, he was always faithful. He’d meet the folks at the door with his tail wagging approval for their matching faithfulness. He especially looked forward to seeing particular members. For his outstanding service to God’s People, they would reward Freddie with a doggie treat.
When I touched Freddie with my finger this morning he didn’t move. I wasn’t surprised, just not ready. He had been showing some awful signs of misery these last several weeks. He walked as if he had arthritis all over. He could hardly lie down. He would just flop over. He couldn’t even “lift his leg” when he needed to, if you know what I mean.
I could tell lately he wasn’t hearing well, either. I’d walk up on him and startle him. He used to be able to hear me coming from a mile away. His eyesight was bad, also. He’d turn his head in different directions trying to focus on you to make out who you were. It was pitiful to see him try to eat. His smell was deteriorating. He’d sniff around trying to find food and pass right over it.
When we were in Talbotton, I decided later to chain Freddie up in the back yard. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to be more considerate to my neighbors. One day, after lunch or something, I left the side door of the pastorium to walk across the parking lot of the church building to enter through its side door and go to my study. I had my back to the backyard. To this day I don’t know what made me turn around. I can’t remember if I heard some sound or God just made me turn. When I did, I was horrified at what I saw.
Today, our youngest son Klay is 16 and is about 6’1” and 225 pounds. That day he was about four or five years old and scrawny. He and Fred had been playing in the backyard. In their play, Freddie had run around Klay several times and had unintentionally wrapped his chain tightly around Klay’s neck.
Klay was down on his knees gasping for breath and trying to grab the chain from around his neck. He couldn’t say a word. I quickly ran and loosed the chain. What if I hadn’t turned around? What if I’d gone on into my study for all the rest of the afternoon? It’s those kinds of questions that run through your mind on those sleepless, restless nights. But thank God, He turned me around!
When we moved to Dallas, Georgia in 1992, we again took Fred along with the U-Haul. The first house we lived in was across a busy highway from the church. I kept Freddie chained or tied up about half the time. Even when loose, he didn’t venture over to the church too much.
Although he didn’t make it to church as often as he used to, Fred let you know he hadn’t forgotten about it. He’d bark and bark and sometimes you could hear him in the church auditorium during worship services. This bothered me. Some of the ushers and greeters at the front door of the church, some of them Deacons themselves, nicknamed him, “Deacon.” I thought that was funny - I’d be preaching and “Deacon” would be barking and distracting me.
When we moved into the house we are living in now, because of leash laws, I had to put Fred on a chain. He didn’t seem to mind it that much. It didn’t make him mad or anything. I’d still let him off every now and then and it seemed the best possible compromise for the situation.
Fred never had a dog house to sleep in until a couple of years ago. I tried to make him one out of lumber. I’m glad I have a “day job.” It was badly built, under financed, poorly planned, and in need of repair. He slept in it some, but he mostly liked to sleep under my old truck parked nearby in the grass.
I found him this morning lying in his nice thick plastic doghouse. I bought it at Wal-Mart last year. It’s neat. It is in halves and you can lift the top off to easily fix the bedding, or check on your pet as I did Fred. Freddie seemed really to like it, especially when I put cedar wood shavings in it. In these last weeks, I put the doghouse within our carport. This made it a little warmer and also easier for me to check on him. I wished I had bought the doghouse for him earlier. I should have known better.
Last week Freddie got to looking really bad. I felt that it was just a matter of a short time. He couldn’t get around well at all, so I took the chain off him knowing he couldn’t go very far. And he didn’t. I was hoping this little bit of freedom would make him feel better. He mostly would just lie down, sipping a little water now and then, but not eating anything.
The family was worried when we came home from church this last Sunday Night and we couldn’t find him. I first thought that he had wondered off somewhere to die. I think I read somewhere that animals do that sort of thing when they know the end is near. I don’t know, maybe it’s just an “old wives tale.” Anyway, I got my flashlight and searched all around the outside of the house and in the yard. No Freddie. Monday Morning I looked again. I went up and down the streets in front of my neighbors--still no Freddie.
On a “hunch”, I called the Animal Control Shelter.
“Hey, did y’all happen to pick up an old dog on McCready Drive, yesterday?” They mentioned they had and described him to me adding, “The person who called us said that your dog looked as though he’d been run over by a car. He’s really in bad shape.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ve had him for over thirteen years. He’s been ‘going down’ for several weeks now - he’s been pitiful. Well, how much will it cost for me to get him out?”
“Thirty-five dollars if you can’t prove he’s had rabies shots; twenty-five if you can prove it.”
“Thirty-five dollars!” I thought to myself. I continued to ask the lady, “How much to leave him there with you and you ‘take care’ of him? And then, can I get his body?”
“We call that a ‘drop-off.’ That’ll cost you eight dollars. But you can’t get his body, we don’t do that. You’ll have to take him to a Vet if you want that sort of thing done.”
Well, I don’t know why I was asking all those questions. I wasn’t going to let Freddie die by himself at a Pound, not among strangers anyway. But I did think to myself in frustration, “Freddie, over thirteen years you’ve run mostly loose and never been in trouble with the Law before, and now you wait after all this time to what is probably your last week of life and you cause me to spend another thirty-five bucks on you!” Well, as soon as I though it, I dismissed it. It wasn’t his fault. I should have known better.
When I arrived at the Animal Shelter the Lady at the desk was very kind and sympathetic. She directed me to a prisoner who was working there - I guess because of some kind of work release program the county has - and he was very kind and sympathetic. He led me to the rear of the shelter and pointed down at the bottom of one of the many cages and said, “’Thar’ he is.”
I looked down and sure enough, “’Thar’ he was.” He was almost lifeless. He was on his side, hardly breathing, resting on a cold and bare concrete floor next to a drain. He didn’t even acknowledge me in any way when I called his name.
I asked the attendant to wait a minute, that I was going out to the car and get and old towel to wrap him in. He generously offered me one of theirs, “for keeps,” he said. The Lady at the desk was also generous. She felt bad that I probably would have to pay a Vet to put him to sleep on top of paying the fine to get Freddie out of the shelter. She waived the fine and wrote me a warning ticket. It seemed Freddie was “bringing out the best” in these folks. I should have known better.
I wrapped Fred in the towel and put him in the floorboard of the car. As I looked at him there I was immediately reminded of the times he rode in that same place all the times our family had moved. That’s when all the memories started flooding in and I started to get “choked up.” This would be the last time he and I rode together.
When I got home I, as carefully as I could, removed the top of his plastic doghouse and gently lowered him into it, using the towel as sort of a lowering device. He moved a little, arching his back to snuggle his nose around his paws. I covered him with some more material and hoped that he felt warm and was comfortable. I snapped his chain to his collar. He stayed in that same spot throughout the night. I should have known better.
Tuesday morning came and our family was eating breakfast together. The family “at home” consists now of just two of the four kids, as well as my wife Caryla and me. Our oldest child Kelly was married in ’93 and she and Todd have given the wife and I two beautiful granddaughters, Rachel and Chloe. Kyle, our oldest son moved out about a year ago and moved in with some college-aged guys from church. I don’t know if this is an “experiment” for him or if it is “permanent.”
So, what remains as an intact family sat at the breakfast table. The unspoken question that was evident on everyone’s mind anxiously begged, “Who’s going to check on Freddie?” I knew by the worried and saddened looked in each of the other’s eyes that it would be me.
I first touched him with just one of my fingers. I didn’t know if I was afraid or what. I never had a pet that lived thirteen years and became almost as much as a responsibility as a child. You have to make sure they get fed and watered and stuff like that, you know. And then if they get in the neighbor’s yard and their trash and do the dumb stuff that dogs do, you have to go and apologize and then at the same time kind of take up for them. Yeah, he was just a dog. But he was my dog - understand?
After just touching him with one finger, I gently placed my entire hand on his back. You know, I was the first to ever hold him. He was a shy little puppy that first time I held him. But as I’ve already said, he soon warmed up to everyone and would lick you all over like all puppies do. He had this “trademark” curl in his tail. It always curled upwardly and back toward his head. It looked kind of funny when it wagged, which it almost always did.
Freddie never did meet a stranger, just friends he hadn’t met. I gave up on him being a “watch dog” a long time ago. He was so friendly that he’d probably escort a burglar right into the house! He was a lively and playful dog. Sometimes, when he was younger, I could get him to talk to me. It was “dog talk,” but we communicated. I would make kind of a muffled “ruff,” “ruff,” sound and he would respond with the same. I looked stupid doing it, but the kids and I found it a lot of fun.
Fred would bark a lot when excited, but he wasn’t that brave. I remember when we lived in Alabama that one of the older men in the community had a mule with which he still used to plow his garden. The mule got loose from him one day. When he finally rounded the mule up, he slowly led him home behind his pick-up truck. Their route home took them past our house. I first was made aware of their presence by Freddie’s excited barking.
Because the mule was being led at the pace of his trot, the ordeal of crossing in front of our house took a little time. I was tickled to watch ol’ Freddie respond to the situation. At first as the mule came down the road toward us from the left, Freddie was right up on the edge of the road just-a-barking like he was going to tear that giant mule to pieces. But as the mule got closer and in front of the house, ol’ Fred backed up correspondingly toward the house, that by the time the mule in the road was directly in front of the house, Fred had his back against the house. As the mule passed to the right of the house and on out of sight Fred again got closer to the edge of the road maintaining a very safe distance between he and the mule, but still just-a-barking.
I pushed against his body with my hand. He was cold and stiff. He was still curled up as though he was sleeping, but death had come early in the morning before the light of day.
Now, I had to go back inside the house and tell the family - the wife, the kids. Some moments in a family’s life are public, other times are meant to be shared alone. This was one of those times.
After we expressed our emotions, I asked the wife and kids what they wanted me to do. “Do you want me to wait until you get back home from work and school to bury him; or do you want me to do it before you get back?” I asked.
“Before,” they all said.
The weather was overcast and there was a very light rain falling. The wife and kids had been gone for a while. It was quiet and there was no traffic on our dead-end street. It was just me and Freddie - just like the first time we met. This time though he wasn’t shivering. No young and healthy body to hold. No anticipation on my part to run back into the house and excitedly tell a young family, “Look what I’ve found!” No looking forward to seeing my small children jump with joy and hearing them ask over and over again, “Can we keep him? Can we keep him? Please Daddy! Please let us keep him! Pleeaassee, Daddy!”
I unsnapped his chain from around his collar for the last time. “You’re free now, Ol’ Boy,” I thought to myself. I lifted him with the same towel that I had used to lower him. I carried him in my arms and for the last time we walked together to the far edge of the back yard. I laid him down and went back to get a shovel. It was still quiet with only the faintest sound of the rain and the “scooping sound” the shovel made as I dug my Old Friend’s grave.
A man has some time to think when he’s digging a grave, even a dog’s grave. A lot of thoughts run through your mind. Especially those thoughts that remind you of the happiness, but brevity and fragility of life. I saw Fred change from a vibrant soul to an “old man of a dog.” It seemed like it happened over night. Scripture never was truer,
“LORD, make me to know my end,
And what is the measure of my days,
That I may know how frail I am.
Indeed you have made my days as handbreadths,
And my age as nothing before You:
Certainly every man at his best state in but vapor.”
-Psalm 39:4-5
“So teach us to number our days,
That we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
-Psalm 90:12
A dumb old animal dies. Yet God uses it to re-teach an old hardened Preacher a lesson: Every moment of life is precious - it is very precious.
I buried our dog Freddie today. I buried him under the peach trees and near the honeysuckle vines. Funny, even up to the day before he died, I didn’t think it would be such an emotional experience. He’s was just an old dog. But, I’m already missing him badly. Part of the “family” is gone. It is difficult in its own way. My heart has an unfamiliar ache within it.
I should have known better - too many roots have grown in that spot.
James H. Cook, Jr., Pastor / New Canaan Baptist Church / Dallas, GA / www.NCBCnet.org
FREDDIE
1986 - 2001
I buried our dog Freddie today - day before Valentine’s.
I buried him near the far edge of the back yard underneath some peach trees. It’s a pretty sight in the Spring Time. There are some big honeysuckle vines close by and when everything is in full bloom, it is beautiful. I should have known better though to bury him there - too many roots had grown in that spot and they made it difficult.
Fred and I first met in the Fall of ’86. I still vividly remember it. He just “showed up” on the carport of the pastorium one morning when our family lived and I pastored in rural White’s Chapel, Alabama. He was standing there in an old discarded appliance box when I walked out the door of the house. He couldn’t have been more than four or five months old. Clean and very healthy looking and white with big black splotches. He was shivering. Partly I guess from the combination of the morning chill and seeing a stranger.
Freddie seemed a little timid at first, but he soon was in my arms and then in our yard and then in our hearts. You have to understand that he would become like family. Our youngest child Karyl, who will soon be thirteen, was born the following February. I think Fred would have been 98 “doggie years” old his next birthday. Yes, he was a good ol’ dog. He was always wagging his tail and ready to play. No matter how he may have just been mistreated, he always came running when you called him; answering with a “yap of a bark” that said all is forgiven and everything is okay. A word to the wise: Don’t ever kick your dog; yell at him; throw rocks at him; or beat him, no matter what he has done or how loud and long he may bark in the middle of the night. He may trick you and live a long time before he dies and then you’ll have a whole bunch of regrets.
They say cats have “nine lives.” Freddie had ten. There were so many times that he would be missing for days and then one evening you’d see him limping back into the yard. He’d have some kind of look of trouble about him - either a wound, or a patch of fur missing, or a puncture wound of some type. I remember one time he had what looked like axle grease all over him. I figured he had been hit and rolled up under a truck or something. He was an original survivor. No television show can top what he’s been through.
I found Freddie in his doghouse when I went to check on him this morning. He was curled up like I’ve seen him a thousand times before. His nose was resting on his front paws and his back was arched so that his hind paws were turned up toward him almost covering his nose. I touched him.
We had let Fred run free while we lived in Alabama. When God moved our family to Talbotton, Georgia in 1989 I wondered to myself if we should take Freddie along. Well, I didn’t have to wonder long. All the kids: Kelly, Kyle, Klay, and Karyl wanted him to go with us. The boys were especially fond of him and like I said before, he was “family.” I was concerned that he’d get loose sometime during the trip so I got one of those yellow nylon ropes and tied him with it. I can still see him with some of that rope around his neck and the rest of it all piled around him in the floorboard of the U-Haul truck.
It didn’t take Fred long to get to know his new home and neighbors. I was constantly reminded of his visits in the neighborhood when someone would say something like, “Hey Preacher! I saw your dog over on “so and so” street this morning.”
During my three pastorates, our family has always lived, at one time or another, across the street, or the parking lot, from the church. Living so close allowed Freddie to “attend church” without any special prodding to do so. Usually he always beat us to the church doors. Although he never did “get in” on a worship service, he was always faithful. He’d meet the folks at the door with his tail wagging approval for their matching faithfulness. He especially looked forward to seeing particular members. For his outstanding service to God’s People, they would reward Freddie with a doggie treat.
When I touched Freddie with my finger this morning he didn’t move. I wasn’t surprised, just not ready. He had been showing some awful signs of misery these last several weeks. He walked as if he had arthritis all over. He could hardly lie down. He would just flop over. He couldn’t even “lift his leg” when he needed to, if you know what I mean.
I could tell lately he wasn’t hearing well, either. I’d walk up on him and startle him. He used to be able to hear me coming from a mile away. His eyesight was bad, also. He’d turn his head in different directions trying to focus on you to make out who you were. It was pitiful to see him try to eat. His smell was deteriorating. He’d sniff around trying to find food and pass right over it.
When we were in Talbotton, I decided later to chain Freddie up in the back yard. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to be more considerate to my neighbors. One day, after lunch or something, I left the side door of the pastorium to walk across the parking lot of the church building to enter through its side door and go to my study. I had my back to the backyard. To this day I don’t know what made me turn around. I can’t remember if I heard some sound or God just made me turn. When I did, I was horrified at what I saw.
Today, our youngest son Klay is 16 and is about 6’1” and 225 pounds. That day he was about four or five years old and scrawny. He and Fred had been playing in the backyard. In their play, Freddie had run around Klay several times and had unintentionally wrapped his chain tightly around Klay’s neck.
Klay was down on his knees gasping for breath and trying to grab the chain from around his neck. He couldn’t say a word. I quickly ran and loosed the chain. What if I hadn’t turned around? What if I’d gone on into my study for all the rest of the afternoon? It’s those kinds of questions that run through your mind on those sleepless, restless nights. But thank God, He turned me around!
When we moved to Dallas, Georgia in 1992, we again took Fred along with the U-Haul. The first house we lived in was across a busy highway from the church. I kept Freddie chained or tied up about half the time. Even when loose, he didn’t venture over to the church too much.
Although he didn’t make it to church as often as he used to, Fred let you know he hadn’t forgotten about it. He’d bark and bark and sometimes you could hear him in the church auditorium during worship services. This bothered me. Some of the ushers and greeters at the front door of the church, some of them Deacons themselves, nicknamed him, “Deacon.” I thought that was funny - I’d be preaching and “Deacon” would be barking and distracting me.
When we moved into the house we are living in now, because of leash laws, I had to put Fred on a chain. He didn’t seem to mind it that much. It didn’t make him mad or anything. I’d still let him off every now and then and it seemed the best possible compromise for the situation.
Fred never had a dog house to sleep in until a couple of years ago. I tried to make him one out of lumber. I’m glad I have a “day job.” It was badly built, under financed, poorly planned, and in need of repair. He slept in it some, but he mostly liked to sleep under my old truck parked nearby in the grass.
I found him this morning lying in his nice thick plastic doghouse. I bought it at Wal-Mart last year. It’s neat. It is in halves and you can lift the top off to easily fix the bedding, or check on your pet as I did Fred. Freddie seemed really to like it, especially when I put cedar wood shavings in it. In these last weeks, I put the doghouse within our carport. This made it a little warmer and also easier for me to check on him. I wished I had bought the doghouse for him earlier. I should have known better.
Last week Freddie got to looking really bad. I felt that it was just a matter of a short time. He couldn’t get around well at all, so I took the chain off him knowing he couldn’t go very far. And he didn’t. I was hoping this little bit of freedom would make him feel better. He mostly would just lie down, sipping a little water now and then, but not eating anything.
The family was worried when we came home from church this last Sunday Night and we couldn’t find him. I first thought that he had wondered off somewhere to die. I think I read somewhere that animals do that sort of thing when they know the end is near. I don’t know, maybe it’s just an “old wives tale.” Anyway, I got my flashlight and searched all around the outside of the house and in the yard. No Freddie. Monday Morning I looked again. I went up and down the streets in front of my neighbors--still no Freddie.
On a “hunch”, I called the Animal Control Shelter.
“Hey, did y’all happen to pick up an old dog on McCready Drive, yesterday?” They mentioned they had and described him to me adding, “The person who called us said that your dog looked as though he’d been run over by a car. He’s really in bad shape.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ve had him for over thirteen years. He’s been ‘going down’ for several weeks now - he’s been pitiful. Well, how much will it cost for me to get him out?”
“Thirty-five dollars if you can’t prove he’s had rabies shots; twenty-five if you can prove it.”
“Thirty-five dollars!” I thought to myself. I continued to ask the lady, “How much to leave him there with you and you ‘take care’ of him? And then, can I get his body?”
“We call that a ‘drop-off.’ That’ll cost you eight dollars. But you can’t get his body, we don’t do that. You’ll have to take him to a Vet if you want that sort of thing done.”
Well, I don’t know why I was asking all those questions. I wasn’t going to let Freddie die by himself at a Pound, not among strangers anyway. But I did think to myself in frustration, “Freddie, over thirteen years you’ve run mostly loose and never been in trouble with the Law before, and now you wait after all this time to what is probably your last week of life and you cause me to spend another thirty-five bucks on you!” Well, as soon as I though it, I dismissed it. It wasn’t his fault. I should have known better.
When I arrived at the Animal Shelter the Lady at the desk was very kind and sympathetic. She directed me to a prisoner who was working there - I guess because of some kind of work release program the county has - and he was very kind and sympathetic. He led me to the rear of the shelter and pointed down at the bottom of one of the many cages and said, “’Thar’ he is.”
I looked down and sure enough, “’Thar’ he was.” He was almost lifeless. He was on his side, hardly breathing, resting on a cold and bare concrete floor next to a drain. He didn’t even acknowledge me in any way when I called his name.
I asked the attendant to wait a minute, that I was going out to the car and get and old towel to wrap him in. He generously offered me one of theirs, “for keeps,” he said. The Lady at the desk was also generous. She felt bad that I probably would have to pay a Vet to put him to sleep on top of paying the fine to get Freddie out of the shelter. She waived the fine and wrote me a warning ticket. It seemed Freddie was “bringing out the best” in these folks. I should have known better.
I wrapped Fred in the towel and put him in the floorboard of the car. As I looked at him there I was immediately reminded of the times he rode in that same place all the times our family had moved. That’s when all the memories started flooding in and I started to get “choked up.” This would be the last time he and I rode together.
When I got home I, as carefully as I could, removed the top of his plastic doghouse and gently lowered him into it, using the towel as sort of a lowering device. He moved a little, arching his back to snuggle his nose around his paws. I covered him with some more material and hoped that he felt warm and was comfortable. I snapped his chain to his collar. He stayed in that same spot throughout the night. I should have known better.
Tuesday morning came and our family was eating breakfast together. The family “at home” consists now of just two of the four kids, as well as my wife Caryla and me. Our oldest child Kelly was married in ’93 and she and Todd have given the wife and I two beautiful granddaughters, Rachel and Chloe. Kyle, our oldest son moved out about a year ago and moved in with some college-aged guys from church. I don’t know if this is an “experiment” for him or if it is “permanent.”
So, what remains as an intact family sat at the breakfast table. The unspoken question that was evident on everyone’s mind anxiously begged, “Who’s going to check on Freddie?” I knew by the worried and saddened looked in each of the other’s eyes that it would be me.
I first touched him with just one of my fingers. I didn’t know if I was afraid or what. I never had a pet that lived thirteen years and became almost as much as a responsibility as a child. You have to make sure they get fed and watered and stuff like that, you know. And then if they get in the neighbor’s yard and their trash and do the dumb stuff that dogs do, you have to go and apologize and then at the same time kind of take up for them. Yeah, he was just a dog. But he was my dog - understand?
After just touching him with one finger, I gently placed my entire hand on his back. You know, I was the first to ever hold him. He was a shy little puppy that first time I held him. But as I’ve already said, he soon warmed up to everyone and would lick you all over like all puppies do. He had this “trademark” curl in his tail. It always curled upwardly and back toward his head. It looked kind of funny when it wagged, which it almost always did.
Freddie never did meet a stranger, just friends he hadn’t met. I gave up on him being a “watch dog” a long time ago. He was so friendly that he’d probably escort a burglar right into the house! He was a lively and playful dog. Sometimes, when he was younger, I could get him to talk to me. It was “dog talk,” but we communicated. I would make kind of a muffled “ruff,” “ruff,” sound and he would respond with the same. I looked stupid doing it, but the kids and I found it a lot of fun.
Fred would bark a lot when excited, but he wasn’t that brave. I remember when we lived in Alabama that one of the older men in the community had a mule with which he still used to plow his garden. The mule got loose from him one day. When he finally rounded the mule up, he slowly led him home behind his pick-up truck. Their route home took them past our house. I first was made aware of their presence by Freddie’s excited barking.
Because the mule was being led at the pace of his trot, the ordeal of crossing in front of our house took a little time. I was tickled to watch ol’ Freddie respond to the situation. At first as the mule came down the road toward us from the left, Freddie was right up on the edge of the road just-a-barking like he was going to tear that giant mule to pieces. But as the mule got closer and in front of the house, ol’ Fred backed up correspondingly toward the house, that by the time the mule in the road was directly in front of the house, Fred had his back against the house. As the mule passed to the right of the house and on out of sight Fred again got closer to the edge of the road maintaining a very safe distance between he and the mule, but still just-a-barking.
I pushed against his body with my hand. He was cold and stiff. He was still curled up as though he was sleeping, but death had come early in the morning before the light of day.
Now, I had to go back inside the house and tell the family - the wife, the kids. Some moments in a family’s life are public, other times are meant to be shared alone. This was one of those times.
After we expressed our emotions, I asked the wife and kids what they wanted me to do. “Do you want me to wait until you get back home from work and school to bury him; or do you want me to do it before you get back?” I asked.
“Before,” they all said.
The weather was overcast and there was a very light rain falling. The wife and kids had been gone for a while. It was quiet and there was no traffic on our dead-end street. It was just me and Freddie - just like the first time we met. This time though he wasn’t shivering. No young and healthy body to hold. No anticipation on my part to run back into the house and excitedly tell a young family, “Look what I’ve found!” No looking forward to seeing my small children jump with joy and hearing them ask over and over again, “Can we keep him? Can we keep him? Please Daddy! Please let us keep him! Pleeaassee, Daddy!”
I unsnapped his chain from around his collar for the last time. “You’re free now, Ol’ Boy,” I thought to myself. I lifted him with the same towel that I had used to lower him. I carried him in my arms and for the last time we walked together to the far edge of the back yard. I laid him down and went back to get a shovel. It was still quiet with only the faintest sound of the rain and the “scooping sound” the shovel made as I dug my Old Friend’s grave.
A man has some time to think when he’s digging a grave, even a dog’s grave. A lot of thoughts run through your mind. Especially those thoughts that remind you of the happiness, but brevity and fragility of life. I saw Fred change from a vibrant soul to an “old man of a dog.” It seemed like it happened over night. Scripture never was truer,
“LORD, make me to know my end,
And what is the measure of my days,
That I may know how frail I am.
Indeed you have made my days as handbreadths,
And my age as nothing before You:
Certainly every man at his best state in but vapor.”
-Psalm 39:4-5
“So teach us to number our days,
That we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
-Psalm 90:12
A dumb old animal dies. Yet God uses it to re-teach an old hardened Preacher a lesson: Every moment of life is precious - it is very precious.
I buried our dog Freddie today. I buried him under the peach trees and near the honeysuckle vines. Funny, even up to the day before he died, I didn’t think it would be such an emotional experience. He’s was just an old dog. But, I’m already missing him badly. Part of the “family” is gone. It is difficult in its own way. My heart has an unfamiliar ache within it.
I should have known better - too many roots have grown in that spot.
James H. Cook, Jr., Pastor / New Canaan Baptist Church / Dallas, GA / www.NCBCnet.org
