Bosun

(This post is not for an assignment.  The bluff in this story is located in southern Missouri, on my friend's farm.  I spent a huge amount of time there as a kid and teen.  I got word last night that the farmhouse burned to the ground yesterday.)

Hiking up the bluff, Billy carrying my burden, me following with the tools. It was a cloudy day, fitting my sorrowful mood. Up the path, climb through the barbed wire fence, being careful of slippery autumn leaves. It wasn't a long hike, but it was steep. We find a spot that looks good. The soil doesn't seem to be too rocky, and the view of the bluff field across the river is one that most would appreciate for an eternity. We lay our burdens down on the damp ground. We pause and take in the view. Yes, this is the spot.

Bosun was a Golden Retriever. My dad brought him home from the pound when I was 9. I remember how excited I was to have a new dog! I really wanted him to be MY dog, but he had other ideas about that! There is an old cartoon that features a little girl who wants to hug-and-squeeze-and-keep-it-for-ever and animal that crosses her path, much to the annoyance of the animals in her sights. This was me. Bosun and I did not get off to a great start.

Billy picks up a shovel and starts to dig. The soil is rockier than we thought. I pick up the pick and try to work the rocks loose. Progress is very slow. How deep does the hole need to be? Neither of us know the answer. So we dig, we pick. We stop to rest and smoke a cigarette. We talk about not much of anything. The sky is steely gray with thunderheads forming over the bluff field. Rain. More rain. Not yet, but soon.

I am 12. Bosun is sitting at the top of the stairs, I am sitting a step down from him. I pick up his left paw; “Port”. I pick up his right paw; “Starboard”. I spend an hour or so repeating this exercise with him. It was the first trick I ever taught to a dog. I was very impressed with myself. Bosun was tolerant.

Back to the job at hand. We hit the roots of the oak trees that tower around us. Use the ax. Dig some more. Pick out more rocks. The hole is growing, but still not deep enough. We try to hurry, so we don't get stuck climbing down the bluff in the rain.

16 years old. Mom and Dad left for Greece. I drop them at the airport. I go to the vet and get Bosun. He is still sore from his surgery. It's heartbreaking to see him in such sad shape. We go to McDonald's. I buy him cheeseburgers. I try to make him comfortable. 4 days later, I wake up to Bosun throwing up. It is a huge puddle. It is bloody.

The hole looks deep enough. We take Bosun from the trash bags that the vet has enshrouded him in. Billy places him in his final bed. We cover him with dirt. It begins to drizzle. We cover the grave with rocks. The rain coming down a little harder. We make a marker out of sticks and place it on top. The heavens openly weep. We gather our tools, stop to look through the sheets of rain at the rolling hills of the bluff field one last time, and head back down the hill.