I was reminiscing about the "younger years" when I remembered one of my youthful experiences which was penned by my cousin Lorraine Eddington:I don’t know who invented the animal funerals. Any one of us would have been proud to claim the honor. Our ritual gradually evolved and we added prayers, singing, eulogies and from those respected cousins that could rustle them up, real tears.
I grew up in a pack of cousins. We roamed our way through the summers in northeastern Arizona oblivious of outside concerns. We hurried through milking, hoeing in the garden and other chores so we could get right to the real business of good, hard play. We explored the canyon, rode horses, swung from the rope in the barn and swam in the muddy creek until our underwear was permanently stained pinkish-brown. But the activity that made our eyes gleam the brightest was the aftermath of a death in the animal population.
Jill was always the gusher. She could cry over any dead thing, even if she had killed it herself. We did sometimes run short of victims of natural causes and had to speed up the life cycle a bit. Stinkbugs and tomato worms were fair game, but the ideal situation required an unassisted death.
Early one June, the Caldwell’s dog, Flint, was hit on the highway between their house and ours. He died instantly and put a satisfying dent in the small car that hit him. The funeral directors gathered at once. There was real sorrow in this loss. Flint was a good dog that had been in the family for many years. We pulled ourselves together, delaying our grief. This, was going to be a funeral.
First a burial sight had to be surveyed. After several arguments we settle on a soft piece of ground under a juniper next to a shale tank. We admonished each other about respectful funeral garb, agreed on the hour we should meet and went home to prepare.
It was a somber group that gathered at the graveside. Flint was reposed on the Caldwell’s Radio Flyer. Red roses stripped from the bush by their front door lined its rusty sides. Clay, the oldest among us, acted as Bishop. We had all been to Mormon funerals and knew who conducted.
My brother Matt started off with a lengthy prayer, affirming our hope that good dogs go to heaven and pleading for the strength to bear the loss. We thanked the Lord for allowing this fine animal to roam among us and all joined in with hearty “Amens”.
This was Jill’s cue. The tears just kept on coming. Looking at her woebegone face, I too burst into copious weeping.
We sang songs of faith, adapting them to the situation.
Jesus wants Flint up in heaven
To shine for him each day
In every way try to please him
At home, on the range, at play.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam
Jesus wants Flint for a sunbeam
A sunbeam, a sunbeam
Flint is a sunbeam for him.
Then each mourner recited a favorite memory of the beloved pet. His doggy life became perfect by the time we had gone around the circle. Jimmy Scott remembered that he never seemed to have that real stinky dog breath, and that he had never pooped on the lawn too much.” Lynn recalled the way he had rounded up milk cows, killed rattlesnakes about to strike babies and saved drowning calves. If ever an animal deserved paradise, it was Flint.
A closing prayer capped the ceremony that had dragged on for an hour and a half. I don’t recall ever being that reverent in church on Sunday. It was an emotionally exhausted group that made its way from the fresh mound to the Caldwell’s front lawn. We got drinks from the hose and let the water run over our hot, red faces. We sat, drained on the grass.
A depression crept over us. What activity could possibly top this emotional catharsis? The summer had reached its zenith. It was all down hill from here. Then Matt began to pace with his hands in his pockets. His voice strained with eagerness, “You know guys, he’s not going to start stinking for a day or two. Let’s dig him up and put him in the barn overnight. We can have another funeral tomorrow!”
Eyes lit up all around the circle. Matt was a genius. All that pomp and glory could go on another day. There was a brief argument about using the barn as a morgue. “What if coyotes come and carry him off. They can smell really good.” said Mark. Right, we all agreed, too risky.
Then Clay proved again his great maturity, the leadership we all revered. “How about our basement? If we put him under the Ping-Pong table, nothing will bother him.”
We sprang into action. Lookouts were posted while a delegation carefully dug up poor, stiff old Flint. He was wrapped in an itchy green army blanket and stealthily carried to the basement.
We went home to milk the cow and eat supper, excited about tomorrow’s ceremony.
Aunt Dixie visited the basement about 7:30 that evening, picking up after her large family as she went. The lump under the Ping-Pong table aroused her motherly suspicions. She put down her load.
From his milk stool in the barn, Clay heard his name yelled with a particular, hair-raising urgency. Suddenly, he knew the reason he was being summoned with such gusto. He skirted his home and hightailed it to our house for reinforcements. He didn’t plan to face his mother’s wrath alone.
We were loyal. We rounded up everyone in sight and dragged each other to face Aunt Dixie. She seemed to be quite angry. Any residual bereavement quickly changed to fear.
Clay got the promise of a swat to come and the rest of us departed under the ominous threat of parental notification. Flint was hastily and unceremoniously reinterred. May he rest in peace.
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