Tuffers (part two)

For years I have noticed a small sign on a road I've frequently traveled that reads: Pines Pet Cemetery. Like something out of a Stephen King novel, it has always conjured up rather dark, unsettling thoughts.

After Tuffy died, I called my vet to find out where I could take him. We live in a subdivision, and it would not go unnoticed if I began digging a grave for my dog in the middle of the day, let alone the fact that the ground around here is like cement. They said I could bring him to their office or take him directly to a place called "The Pines Pet Cemetery."

"I know right where that is." I replied.

So, we wrapped Tuffy up, placed him on his pillow in the car and took him for his last ride. (He used to love holding his head out the window, smelling all the smells dogs like to smell.) Since I had called for more information prior to, I knew the sign had toppled in a recent storm and was no longer there to mark the way. I was told to "turn left just past Hidden Valley Fruit Farm." And so we did, and followed a long winding farm lane. When we got to the second house on the left, we turned in.

As we drove up the driveway, the cemetery came into view - and I was stunned at how absolutely beautiful it was. It was a country pasture landscaped with trees, walking paths, several beautiful grave stones, a memorial wall, a statue of a horse, and other assorted sculpted memorials throughout the grounds. Several flower arrangements marked the flat grave stones. It was so peaceful . . . and completely unexpected.

We walked into the office and were greeted by a woman who took our information. I asked how long the cemetery had been there and she said since the 1960's. She listed several options - a full burial with plot and coffin (not exactly for us), a country burial where dozens of animals are buried together (granted, Tuffy would not have known the difference, but it just didn't sit right with me), or cremation (yes).

Then the dreaded moment came. "Should we bring him in?" I asked.

And so I carried him into the office and held tight. The woman asked if I wanted to sit with him in a room for awhile. "No," I said. I hugged and kissed him, started sobbing and handed him over to her. I looked away as John patted Tuffy one last time, and when I looked back, I could see that she was crying, too. I knew then that I had taken him to the right place.

We will pick up Tuffy's ashes and bury them in our garden come spring, and most likely mark his spot with a flowering plant or tree. I'm sure it will be some time before I stop looking around for him, or want to yell out his name - just because. But it's already getting better.

While difficult, this simple ritual at a pet cemetery helped me to say goodbye.

Tuffers

A little piece of my heart broke this morning - and for those of you who have had a faithful furry companion love you unconditionally over the years, I'm sure you can relate.

We brought Tuffy home almost 14 years ago. I remember the day as if it were yesterday. He was the cutest in the bunch - and we knew he was our pup immediately. He was able to carry a tennis ball in his tiny little mouth, and was ready to play from the get go. We drove him home - and he sat in my mom's lap the whole way. He was part of our family during such formative years - and I believe I'm mourning the passing of those in some way - as much as I am him.

He is along side of Ryan in just about every single first day of school picture, he's nestled between us in holiday photos, and looking too cute in photos of just him (see profile) and posing with his other dog buddies. He never knew a stranger....and when he went out on his adventures (unbeknownst to us) he always made new friends. He was there for me when I was going through some pretty rough times....always willing to lick my tears away. He loved Ryan, but was always quick to let him know that in spite of his small size, HE was the alpha dog.

I take some small comfort in the fact that I was home alongside him, petting him as he took his final breaths, trying to give some measure of reassurance that this was supposed to be.

But it's still a tough day to be sure. And I will miss him.