Dog texts and resting places
There’s a big park very near my house. Half of it contains a grassy football field where local youth teams compete while parents cheer from bleachers, a playground with swings and assorted colorful structures for climbing, a pavilion with picnic tables and barbecue grills, restrooms, and vast green space with giant trees. The other half is a cemetery. The whole park takes up many city blocks. It’s beautiful, peaceful, and well used.
Tootsie the Wonder Dog and I meander through the park every morning. I obey the leash law—for the most part. If there are no humans around, I occasionally let go of the leash when Toots sees a squirrel because I know she misses the hunting that was her primary pastime in rural Carroll County. (I always wait until I’m certain she can’t actually catch the critter. I’m pretty sure that would be a violation of the leash law that could get us expelled from the park.) But even when I am holding the leash, I follow her lead for most of our walk. I let her tell me where she wants to go—so she can sniff at will, deciding what secret messages to leave for the rest of the local canine population.
Except—I don’t let her walk on the graves. We sometimes walk on the pathways between gravesites, or on the quiet roads that run through the cemetery. But she’s not allowed on top of graves, despite their lush grass and squirrel parties. I know most people care deeply about what happens to their loved ones’ gravesites. It to keep them clean and well-trimmed. I respect that and have trained Tootsie accordingly.
She gets it. She will walk around the perimeter, interpreting messages and replying. But she no longer asks to walk on gravesites. Recently, as we strolled near the edge of the cemetery, I wondered if her phenomenally keen sense of smell gives her any inkling of what this place is all about. Does she know this is the final resting place for a passel of humans?
I have no plot picked out for myself. When I die, my kids are instructed to employ whatever is the cheapest, easiest method to get rid of the body—legally. I tell them not to get suckered into any fancy funeral expenses. These are the same directions my father gave me about disposal of his remains. He and my mother currently reside in twin cardboard boxes in my daughter’s closet. My husband and his cardboard box rest on my closet shelf.
To the best of my knowledge, I won’t care what my kids do with me. I’ll be dead. Should they feel compelled to put me in the ground in an official “resting place,” it will be no skin off my nose, so to speak, if people walk (or dance) on my grave. Or if dogs squat to leave a text for other dogs. In fact, I’d hope my offspring have the sense to post a cutesy sign that says, “dog pee and poop welcome here.”
Actually, I’m grateful cemeteries exist. Green spaces disappear at alarming rates these days, but cemeteries often warrant some protections from disruption. Something just occurred to me: My Berryville daughter has an extra lot attached to her property. Maybe the kids could plant their mom, dad, grandma and grandpa in the extra yard, build a fence around the perimeter and create a dog park. I can’t think of a better resting place.