Grief, Peanut Butter, and a Border Collie

Credits

I cannot even find my picture of you, sitting in your favorite chair, the place you would go to eat your peanut butter sandwich after your walk.

Damn you for getting old, for stinking, for dying, you old mop, slopped about the house, black and white, tail curled, licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.

You loved to walk, scratching the wall, the leash hanging above, still like death but standing in heartbreaking anticipation. The restraint that so often muted your collie instincts marks your grave, hanging on a green stake above. A small but stunted tree struggles right next to it, above you. Was it the noose that held you back, or have you finally broken free of stinking, aging, and dying?

You were more than an old mop to me; you were my childhood, my youth. You were my companion and friend. You were a sweet animal among the cruel human and the psychopathic nature of Nature. The sound of your nails tapping the floor, the sound of you scratching, and, yes, licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth. You, it, had a rhythm that gave predictability to the unpredictability of life.  

Your eyes, that of a Border Collie, big and brown, full of feeling, teared up once, when I yelled at you.

You died alone; I remember patting you on the head, your labored but soft puffing. You tried to hang on to the beauty of life, an oft-stealth flicker in this vast and timeless universe. 

I remember the day I got you. You cried for mom, and my fleeting child parenting skills went awash when you peed in my bed. My mom put you next to hers, in a box we got from the dollar store, and you became her fourth son and my third brother.

And I let you die alone; I couldn’t handle death, the death of my friend, brother, and of my childhood. I turned up the radio to block out the sound of the approaching reckoning for you and for all of us. Being denied leave for a dying son, my mother went to work while I went numb and blocked out life.

As silence engulfed my room, I no longer heard breathing from you. There you lay, a fragment of the brother you were, but I summed up courage and mummified you with the discount plastic garbage bags from the dollar store. One over your bottom, and a plastic bag over your head—a head I often kissed and pet; I taped the middle shut and carried you, like a sixty-pound baby into the freezer we call Buffalo, New York. I moved on the autopilot that abuse and harshness perfects.

We would put you in the ground, when life was awakening. 


Written March 1, 2008; revised May 2016

Earl Yarington

Published by EarlY

I have a PhD in literature and criticism and have taught literature, technical, and research writing for over 16 years. I am also a graduate student in social work in my final year. My focus area is with men that suffered past abuse, sex offending against children and with paraphilia. I will also complete my sex therapist certification by next year as well.

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