Advertisement

My dog comes to life in the cemetery

Share

This article was originally on a blog post platform and may be missing photos, graphics or links. See About archive blog posts.

It’s 6:30 a.m. and I’m dead to the world. The rising sun shines through my window casting a burnt orange glow across my ceiling. My eyes open to two eyes staring back. A tongue slurps every nano-morsel of last night’s dinner from my stubble. The next 30 licks are for love. The next 30, to get me up for our daily walk through the cemetery.

Then the barking begins.

I get up and up and grumble, ‘OK, Petey, we’re going.’ I pick up Thursday’s jeans from the floor and rummage through the laundry for a jacket.

Advertisement

Petey is going full throttle -- barking, violently shaking toys, growling, chomping on his squeaky ball. He knows that within five minutes he’ll escape the cage I call home to go run free in heaven. This is God’s watchdog –- protecting the pearly gates from Satan’s pesky squirrels.

Petey claws at the wall next to the front door. I wonder how much it will cost to paint when my lease is up in two months. (I also wonder how we’ll live without the cemetery if we move). The door opens, and he bolts to the end of the street where he waits for me to leash him and cross the busy road to our final resting place.

Inside the cemetery the lawn workers continue with what seems to be 24-hour lawn mowing. In the distance, smoke billows. Must be a cremation. At the entrance a sign is already set up to welcome today’s funeral. The sign changes almost daily. A lot of people die in L.A.

Petey is already on the lookout for squirrels; his prey drive overtakes his training. Leash taut, his airflow restricts, rendering his earthshaking bark to a strained whistle.

Off with the leash –- I’m no longer behind a 22-pound terrier, but an F-15 Strike Eagle fighter jet with both afterburners engaged.

The cemetery is endless, but with boundless energy Petey manages to tour every square inch of partially frozen grass.

Advertisement

When I mention Petey’s cemetery walks to others, it evokes a polarizing response. I see how some think it’s disrespectful. But my math is that many of these dead folk had dogs and don’t mind the visit. And the ground placards are never denigrated because Petey jumps over them like a rabbit full of piss and vinegar.

Yes, he occasionally has to do his doody. But he prefers a special spot outside the cemetery and if he does go I carry a bag (from my morning L.A. Times). Truth be told, he could go behind a gravestone when I’m not looking, but I do my best to keep tabs on his droppings. Besides, you could hardly tell the difference between his No. 2 and that of a squirrel.

About those squirrels.

God forbid Petey ever catches one. Luckily, the squirrels hear the jingle of his collar from a mile away and are up the trees before he gets within striking range. That doesn’t keep him from trying, however. When he sees one scurry up a branch he stands on his hinds bellowing loud enough to wake the dead (sorry, had to go there).

On the far end of the cemetery, in an area with very small ground placards (most likely urns) is a wall Petey jumps over on command. I’m proud of us both for accomplishing this trick. I hope one day we compete in agility competitions. Put that on the list of things to do before I die.

It’s getting lighter. Warm rays of light poke through the evergreen branches melting the frost not already cleared away by my trailblazing dog.

I look at the names on the gravestones and wonder how everyone’s life played out. Some died young, some old. Most died before the Internet. Imagine that.

Advertisement

I say a short prayer to the God of my understanding and remember that nothing today is worth stressing about. After all, I’ll be here soon enough. I just hope someone brings a dog to visit.

When I approach the gate to leave, Petey is already waiting -– panting with a big angelic smile.

He’s such a good boy.

-- Graham McCann

Advertisement