I think few things can be as traumatic in a young boy’s life as the passing of a much loved family dog. And so it was for me.
We sat on the outside steps to the courtyard, my brothers and I, waiting for our Cocker Spaniel Laddie to return. We were each somewhere in our own thoughts on that late summer afternoon when things stand still and quiet as they sometimes do in the countryside. The low buzz of a passing bumblebee, an occasional breeze coming from the sea would gently rustle the leaves of the old fig tree that held a commanding presence in the courtyard. Somewhere off in the distance, the sound of a bicycle bell ringing as a lone rider made his way down to the village. In the fields adjacent to our house, a cow would occasional remind us of its presence. We waited some more. The grandfather clock momentarily shattering the silence and strike the hours solemnly, almost as if it were in pain. Then quiet again. A fig would drop with a sound as it hit the graveled courtyard and lie there momentarily before one of my brothers would pick it up and throw it high over the gate and across the road to the farm. A well placed shot was always a good thing as the fig wars may have stopped for a while they certainly did not signal a total cessation. Sitting on the steps, we said nothing and watched nothing in particular. Then we heard the unmistakable sound of the Peugeot horn. The sound could just as well have been an air raid horn going off, warning us to take cover but it was too late. My father was signalling us to open the gates so that he could drive into the courtyard. We watched as the Peugeot rumbled in to a stop beneath the old fig tree. That moment I had hoped would never arrive, yet knowing somehow in my heart it would inevitably come, was finally here. I dreaded it. My father, in a white button down shirt, khaki long pants and loafers stepped out of the car and gave us all a look that needed no explanation. He felt as bad as we all did and I felt myself biting my lower lip to stop it from trembling and valiantly holding back my tears. How unfair was this? It wasn’t suppose to happen, never ever. As the trunk was unlocked and opened, we three boys peered in only to see a rug which we knew held Laddie’s last remains.
“Come on boys, give me hand, each of you take a corner of the rug and I’ll get the shovel.”
My father lead the procession, shovel in hand, then came my brothers each holding a side of the rug and Laddie, and me following behind. The only thing missing would have been a top hat on my father’s head, me twirling an umbrella high in the air and the sounds of a New Orleans funeral dirge playing in the background. Slowly we proceed from the courtyard pass the little white gate into the garden, walking slowly as our footsteps crunched along the gravel, passing the pear and apple trees and finally through the last gate into the far right hand corner of the potager or vegetable garden, Laddies designated final resting place. He would go no further ever again. My brothers took turns digging a deep hole, my father smoked a Kent cigarette looking at nothing in particular, emotions had passed and some things just had to be done that’s that. I don’t know what I expected him to say or for that matter, do. It felt like an out of body experience, me watching myself watch the burial. The rug was unfolded and I caught my last look at Laddie, his black and white coat, his grey muzzle and his eyes closed, forever. Into the hole he was placed but without the rug which had been unceremoniously rescued by my father “it’s still a perfectly decent rug, no use throwing it away.” After many shovelfuls later it was all over. Just like that, the end. We were left with our memories of Laddie our dog; memories which would inevitably fade perhaps forever, perhaps not. Many years later when I finally returned to visit the family home in Brittany, I found myself strolling down to the old potager, swing open the gate and walk back to Laddie’s corner and remember. I will do it again next time. I hope he understands.