Things to Do in Albuquerque When You’re a Dead Dog

The fundamental problem with stories about dogs is that so often they end, tearfully, with the subject dog expiring in an excruciating death scene. That won't be the case with this story. In fact, this story begins with the dog, in this case, Lyric, already dead, having passed away peacefully in her sleep at the ripe old age of 15. Adore her as I did, this story isn't about Lyric, per se, but about her earthly remains and their disposition.


Personally, I believe almost all of the rituals and traditions associated with death are insane. Of course, the remembrance of deceased loved ones sustains us, but the physical remains are just that, remains, of someone who once was, but who now exists only in our memory. If anything, it seems to me, ritualistic display, handling and disposal of the corpse of either dog or human is an affront to who they were before they became a corpse. Every dog or cat we had who died after Lyric was disposed of in the county dog hole, and I think that's as it should be.

The county dog hole is just that, a big pit for dead dogs and cats. I suppose it has a real name, but I like to think of it as the dog hole. It's loaded with corpses, then lime is poured, then it's loaded with corpses again. Lather, rinse, repeat, until you need to finally dig a new, or deeper, dog hole. Thinking about it, dogs and cats aren't lonely and scared in the dog hole, and they're with their own kind. If they insist on being dead, I frankly can't think of a better place for them to be than the dog hole. If there were something like a dog hole for people, I'd sign up, right away. Karen felt just as I did, and after her death we donated her remains to the New Mexico Museum of Anthropology. But when Lyric died, we were far less callow, and felt certain things needed to be done to the remains. So we tried to do them.

Before I get to Lyric's bodily remains, let me discuss her hair. Lyric was a long-haired German shepherd, and Karen brushed her thoroughly for the twelve years she was ours. During that time, she saved all of Lyric's hair, in white kitchen garbage bags. When we moved, we'd move the bags of hair with us. By the time Lyric died, we had more than thirty.


I will argue that Karen was not clinically insane. She actually had a reason for keeping Lyric's hair. Granted, it was a half-baked and ultimately stupid reason, but it was a reason, nonetheless. From the time she met Lyric, Karen had the fantasy of saving Lyric's hair, and one day having it spun into yarn and made into a sweater. It wasn't until after Lyric's death that Karen bothered to look into the feasibility of this plan. 


Karen consulted artisans, and learned this. You can make things out of dog hair, but you probably shouldn't. There's a reason we don't make things out of discarded pet hair. Apparently, anything made of the collected hair of Lyric would not only be hideous and overly fragile, but would also stink of wet dog all the time. Ultimately, the thirty-plus garbage bags of hair went to the dump.


Then there was the matter of Lyric's bodily remains. Naturally, we'd meet Lyric's spirit again at the Rainbow Bridge, but Karen was crystal clear as to what she wanted done with her body. She wanted Lyric cremated, and wanted to sprinkle the remains at a particular location in the Sandia foothills that Lyric had loved. It was a location we always imaginatively referred to as "the place." It was just a bit off a path, with a small stream, and it was pristine, and rugged and magnificent. It's where we wanted to let Lyric's soul fly free.

We hiked to the place, and I carried Lyric's remains in a canister that resembled an extra-large coffee can. My big girl felt so light in that can.


Once at the place, we sent our last earthly love to Lyric, and prepared to sprinkle her dust to the New Mexico winds, where it would be lifted and flown far and wide, so all of the Sandia mountains, indeed, all of the American west, would be imbued with Lyric's sweet essence. I don't remember, but I'm sure some beautiful words were said. Then I opened the canister so Karen and I could toss the fairy dust into which our girl had been transformed into the breeze.

What was in the can was not at all what we expected. It was black, and rocky, and had recognizable chunks of charred dog in it. Somehow, this relatively small can held a massive amount of matter, and though the can had felt light, the "cremains" were dense. There was going to be no letting Lyric float away in the wind. As we each tossed the first handfuls of her into the air, the charred mass dropped straight to the ground, as if it were iron filings and the earth were a giant magnet.

We were near the small, babbling, creek. We had imagined many of her remains would persist near the creek she had loved and romped through. What we didn't expect is that by the time the third and fourth handfuls of the black matter had been removed from the can, the stuff would begin to, literally, dam the creek. What had been intended as the liberation of a sweet, beloved, soul, had suddenly turned into an illegal biohazardous dumping with serious environmental implications.


We still had half a can of Lyric left. We dumped it into some foliage, and got out of the place, before some park ranger came up and arrested us for despoiling the foothills.


We laughed then, and I laugh now, remembering this. What was in that canister was no more Lyric than the bags of hair were a sweater, or what's in some drawers in a museum in Albuquerque is Karen, or whatever's buried in the cemetery is your grandmother. Whatever happened to the black sludge damming the creek that day, my Lyric will always be beautiful, always happy, and always on the arm of her Mom.


© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
ScottsdaleDogMan.com
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The Dog on El Día de los Inocentes

It had been wet and cold all month. The rain hadn't stopped for twelve hours straight, and there had been a number of mudslides in and around the small Mexican town, Rafael Delgado, in the state of Veracruz, about 140 km from the capital, Xalapa. The weather was of no concern to the Madrazo family as they prepared for the celebration.


Rosa and Malinal were busy in the kitchen, cooking the tamales and preparing the rest of the feast. Juan had gathered everything else they needed weeks ago, and he sat alone by the fireplace in the next room, looking at nothing.


Ernesto and some friends had been at the small family graveyard all night, setting up the large red tarp that the party could be held under. His father had bought the tarp several months before, justifying the need for a new one because red was Francisco's favorite color.

The dog had been watching Ernesto and his friends all night, unseen, trembling in the rain. A fallen tree offered him some protection from the elements, but the dog was skin and bones and he ached from the cold wetness. He wished he could approach Ernesto and his friends, but they were busy and he had been chased away by groups of young men many times in the past, and had even been shot at. So the dog silently watched.


After the sun rose, Malinal had approached her father and asked him if he wanted any breakfast.


"Why," Juan asked. "All we'll be doing all day is eating and drinking. And dancing." He said it plainly, and then returned his gaze to the fireplace. Malinal started to say something, thought better of it, then left the room. When she was safely away from her father, she began to cry, stopped herself, and went to her room to put on the new blue dress she had bought for the day.

Sr. and Sra. Infante, the padrinos, the godparents, had arrived at the cemetery with the altar and some food. As they set up the altar, Ernesto and his friends began to eat hungrily. They had been drinking through the cold night.

The dog had been against the fallen tree for hours now, but he lay still, watching, aching, not just with cold and hunger, but with want. He was ten months old and alone, a medium-sized black and brown dog, as common a dog as could be found in Mexico. In the months since his birth, his littermates and mother had died or disappeared, but somehow he had survived on his own.


The day had broken as much as the gloomy weather would permit by the time the Madrazo family arrived in their car, with the bulk of the food and other items. Sr. Infante braved the rain to help them unload the car, and they all quickly got underneath the tarp.


The dog's tail began to wag and his eyes shone. He could smell the tamales and the other food. He had been surviving on mice and voles, and the smell of this feast being set out was the best thing he could imagine smelling. For no reason, it reminded him of his mother and litter-mates, of that time he had been warm and safe. It was what heaven smelled like.


The quiet was broken suddenly by loud, vibrant, music coming from Ernesto's boom box. The others were startled by the sound, and they turned, as one, towards Ernesto.


"Come on," he said. "It's a party! Pedro," he said to one of his friends who had remained, "Dance with Malinal! My sister loves to dance, she's the life of the party!" Ernesto had spat the words out angrily. Malinal took his arm gently.


"Ernesto, please, not now."


"No," Ernesto said, angrily, "For God's sake, not now! Now we celebrate! Look, I'm celebrating, too, look!" He slipped on a mask of a grinning skull. He was still for a moment, before he quietly said to his sister, "Please. Dance."


The dog watched with anticipation. Ernesto's angry tone hadn't frightened him. If anything, it attracted him. His nose quivered, then he made a decision. He got up from the spot he'd been in for so long, and quietly approached the shelter provided by the tarp.


Underneath the tarp, Pedro and Malinal had tried to dance, but soon found there wasn't enough space. Rosa and Sra. Infante put the final touches on the alter. There was the picture of Francisco, the one he had taken at school. There were toys, toy trucks, cars, models. A baseball and a soccer ball sat together, along with a carefully arranged collection of butterflies, neatly pinned to a piece of cork-board, painstakingly labeled by hand.

Juan and Sr. Infante were standing near the edge of the tarp. Sr. Infante suddenly said, "Look! A dog."


Juan turned to see the cur, in the rain, looking hopeful and slowly wagging his tail .


"Get out of here! Get out of here, you dirty dog! Get out of this cemetery!" He punctuated his yelling by throwing a series of small rocks at the dog.


Frightened, the dog ran off, and Sr. Infante led Juan to the altar. "Juan, my friend," he said. "it's…" He shrugged his shoulders as his voice trailed off.

"It's a party," Ernesto shouted. Malinal trembled, both from the cold and her brother's violent tone. Rosa and Sra. Infante were preparing plates of food for everyone as her husband and Juan stood before the altar.

Everyone took their plates and began eating as the music blared on.


Malinal was the first to notice the dog come under the tarp. "Oh, he look's hungry," she said, moving towards the wet creature.


Juan's face reddened. "I told you to get out of here!" he shouted at the dog. He moved towards him, stamping his foot. "Get out!" The dog held his ground, looking back and forth between Juan and Malinal.

"He's starving," Malinal said. "Francisco would have fed him."


Juan's anger softened a little. "Get out of here now, dog!" he continued, "You're not going to eat my son's feast!"

The dog sat down, wagged his tail, and tried his best to not look mangy and starving, but to be ingratiating. Juan began to laugh, quietly.


"You're right, Malinal. Why not let him have it? How does it matter?"


"Because he was my brother!" Ernesto suddenly shouted. He had a pistol from the back of his truck in his hand.


Rosa said, "Ernesto, stop it! This is supposed to be a happy time." The dog looked at Rosa and wagged his tail. Taking this in, seeing his mother seeming to accept this terrible dog, on this terrible day, was too much for Ernesto. He aimed the pistol and shot at the dog.


The dog yelped. He had been hit in the right shoulder. He turned to run away, but fell. The pain was coursing through his body. Ernesto's friends had taken the pistol from him, and Malinal was moving towards the dog. Sr. Infante stopped her.

"He's hurt, he might bite," Sr. Infante said.


The dog got up, having lost a fair amount of blood. Now that he was aware that his right front leg didn't work anymore, he was able to hobble, surprisingly rapidly, back into the rain. He kept going and did not look back.


Malinal was crying now, and Juan looked like he might cry as well. Ernesto was sheepish and repeatedly tried to apologize to Malinal, but she kept turning away from him.


Later that night, after everyone had packed up and gone home, the dog came back.


His gunshot wound wasn't fatal, though since it hindered his ability to move freely and quickly, it likely would be soon. The pain has lessened a little, but was still extreme, and the dog was slightly dizzy from pain and  loss of blood. The rain, and the blood, and the months on his own, had matted his coat, and he looked more like a skeleton of a dog from a horror movie than like a dog itself.

The dog walked to the grave marker that said, "Francisco Delgado, 2001-2009, Son," and lay down sorrowfully on the dirt, further blanketing the little boy's remains. The cold rain beat down on him. He wouldn't get up again. He wanted to stay where he was forever.


He looked out at the sky, the full moon thwarted by clouds, threw back his head, and howled mournfully. He howled with every last bit of energy he had in him. He howled with the sadness of an abandoned child, with the bewilderment of a little boy who knew that his own admired big brother, who he had always wanted to be like, had today killed him.





© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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