Dog Day Thanksgiving

     Seeing most of our family gathered around a large, partially dug hole in a remote spot far away from my parents’ house and the greenery of Grassland, I knew this Thanksgiving promised to be different.  As a group we had always looked forward to a feast at Mom’s table with a fervor the Pilgrims would have admired.  My sisters’ children and my kids were conditioned to start salivating on Monday, their mouths reflexively reminded of the memories of Thanksgiving Thursdays past.  Salmon and cream cheese paired with garlic dip and celery would start the ritual, followed deliciously by fresh vegetables, ripe fruit, and homemade potato salad, topped off with your choice of a sweet ham, chicken and dumplings, and a giant turkey.  And a serving of canned cranberry sauce for me.  All the fixings waited patiently each year as we clasped hands in a family circle to pray for each other and share thanks for our blessings. 

     But this year had been a tough one. For our dogs.  We had been alerted during the drive over that in the middle of the night, Tigger, the last of my parents’ twin golden retrievers, had wandered off.  Sacrificing any sleep or preparation for the big day tomorrow, Mom and Dad had frantically searched for him, finally discovering him in the woods, barely breathing.  Somehow my two aging parents in an act of teamwork and bravery that will forever be legendary, wrapped their timeworn friend in a blanket and dragged his 120 pound body in the darkness, through rough terrain and wet grass, uphill and back to the house.  And there, in their arms, he had died.

     Earlier in the year, our dog Casper’s kidneys were failing miserably all over our house so tragically we were forced to put him to sleep.  Three sad days later we picked up his cremated remains, then, it being dinnertime, noticed an Italian café nearby.  “Do we leave Casper in the car?” I wondered out loud.  “No, we can’t just leave him.” pleaded Toni.  So, with some trepidation and Casper under my arm, we entered the restaurant.  “Table for three.” I demanded.  The hostess searched unsuccessfully.  “Will someone be joining you?”  “No.” I replied blankly.  Seated by our puzzled waitress, we placed Casper in the chair between us, saluting his life of faithful companionship over some pasta and a vintage bottle of Sangiovese.

         That same year, my sister Vickie and her family lost their golden retriever, Sandy.  Their replacement, a tiny, long-haired chihuahua named Bambi died of a brain injury when she accidently fell down a staircase.  Sister Patty’s dog, a yorkie named Lucy, barely escaped death after eating too much beach sand.  Our other dog, Rocky, had to have all his teeth removed, forever left with a tongue that would not stay in his mouth.  Sister Becky’s family dog, Kitty, could no longer walk and had to be put to sleep as well.  And Tigger’s twin, Ginger, had succumbed to cancer earlier in the year.  And now Tigger was dead.

     My dad, arms crossed, shoulders slumped and head down, stood at the hole’s edge.  Brother-in-law Pete, armpits sweating and soil stains on his Thanksgiving shirt, leaned on a shovel as Vickie’s new boyfriend Dave took his turn at the tree roots in the bottom of the hole.  Dave wiped his brow, a little out of breath and his clothes a mess.  This was Dave’s first Thanksgiving celebration with the Branners, and I nodded to him gratefully as I approached the cemetery’s border, silently wondering whether it would be his last.  No one knew what to say.  Normally a talkative Christian group, nieces Lauren, Cameron and Brooke quietly ministered to the other family members gathered around the grave.  The morning sun’s electrifying massage of the golden leaves of autumn veiled the solemn sadness of the moment.  

     At that moment there were no tears.  Just a hole to dig.

     Dad broke the silence.  Pointing out imperfections in the quality of the grave, he recommended Dave dig a little more here and Pete trim a little more there.  Then he sent the two back to the house to drag the unwieldy coffin to its final resting place.  The hole now complete, I said a private prayer of thanks that I had arrived a bit late.  Dad volunteered few details of the experience.  “Don’t know where your momma is.” he wondered. “Cooking, I guess.”  “Tigger was old.” he said.  “Best dog I ever had.” he said.  “Snoopy was buried there,” he pointed out,  “and our cat was buried there – twice.  I buried her myself on a Monday morning, then got to work and had the horrible thought that maybe she was just sleeping.  So I rushed back home, dug her up and put a mirror in front of her dirt-covered nose.  No fogging.  So I buried her again.”  The family group tittered awkwardly.  “Really, I did.” he chuckled.

     Mom was back at the house.  Cooking.  And crying. Toni and Vickie had jumped in to help our visibly upset matriarch prepare the traditional feast.  Watching her cook is fun and inspirational, but helping her cook is impossible.  She uses no recipes, just moving gracefully from pot to pot, knowing exactly what to add to make it perfect.  Adjusting this burner, uncovering that pot, adding an unmeasured ingredient or a special spice.  A pinch of salt.  Some oregano.  A little nutmeg.  “Ginger!” she suddenly exclaimed, throwing open the spice cabinet door, while my wife and sister watched helplessly.  What does she use that for?  “I need ginger.”  Rummaging through the pantry she pulled out a small, unassuming cardboard box, taped closed, and labeled “Ginger”. “Hurry! Take this outside and put it in the hole.” 

     Back at the pet cemetery, Dave and Pete muscled the stuffed blanket into the hole.  Our growling stomachs reminded us of how hungry we were, and we shared impatient glances about when the feast would begin, but we steadfastly stood witness, then recoiled as Dad started to pour Ginger’s cremated remains into the grave.  Thinking better of it, he lovingly placed the unopened box by his loyal old buddy, and the two were buried, promising Tigger he would for all eternity be with his twin. 

     We clasped hands while Brooke preached a short message and prayed a simple prayer of Peace and Thanksgiving.  All because of a dog, our family of brothers and sisters, and children and parents, uncles and aunts and in-laws and cousins and friends and grandparents had gathered together this year to experience Thanksgiving in a different way, and receive again the message handed down through generations from the Pilgrims in their New World in 1621: 

     Be thankful for the blessings of the harvest, the rewards of hard work, the salvation we receive from catastrophe and terrible events, and the sanctity of life.