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.