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The death of a furry friend and a nation of neighbors [1]

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Date: 2024-08-26  

“Asta died. Can you come over and help me bury her?”

That was the phone message waiting for me when I got home for lunch a couple days ago. It wasn’t unexpected; three days before that my friend Judy called and asked me to come over and help get her old dog Asta into her car for a trip to the vet. The old pup had been in rough shape, now she looked real bad. I figured there was a good chance that the trip might be one-way, but an antibiotic infusion brought her around well enough to return home.

Of course I called back and said yes, of course. My wife came home a few minutes later. Once we took ten minutes to get a couple wildlife feedings out of the way we grabbed shovels and root-cutting tools and drove to Judy’s house. We knew what was required, we’ve dug dog graves before.

Judy is too old to be digging a grave for a medium-sized dog. We probably are too, we’re in out early seventies, but she has ten years on us. So we dug a hole in the chosen spot, and as we dug the three of us talked about dogs past and present, how their lives are too short, and how the pain of their dying is part of the price we pay for their love and companionship.

Judy waited by the grave as my wife and I went to the house, removed Asta’s collar and harness—the handle on the harness enabled Judy get Asta up the step from one part of the house to the other, and out to pee for the past few days. We wrapped her in a sheet, carried her outside and up to a garden cart, now a hearse, and conveyed her to where the hole we had made waited. We buried Asta in one of her favorite places, looking toward the neighbor’s yard she loved to watch over.

After a while we left, going back to interrupted tasks, leaving Judy to continue mourning her lost friend. The friend who had and has provided so much solace since her husband died a few years back. Asta was not Judy’s first dog, not even her fifth. We knew it would be hard, but she’d be all right in her now-quiet house. I’ve seen her since. She’s managing.

But this is really not just a brief, sad story about the loss of a beloved dog. This event just codifies—crystallizes--some of what I’ve been thinking since the Convention:

We saw and heard the hunger for an America that cares for its young, and provides dignity for its elders. That comforts those who need it, that finds a place of welcome for those left alone. That celebrates our differences, joins hands in our unity, and finds a way for those in darkness to see light, and shine themselves. A place of kindness, tolerance, and charity, where rights are restored and defended, and wrongs are upended.

There is our America out there, a land of honor and truth and respect, of people who would not hesitate to bend our backs to help dig a grave for someone’s cherished companion. A people who would feel honored to be asked such a thing, and would say yes, of course without a second thought.

Those are the sort of people we saw at the DNC: on the stage, and in the crowd. People whose first instinct is to provide aid and comfort. Real Americans who want to help keep building the country of our aspirations and imaginations and dearest ideals.

A nation of neighbors ready with a hug and a shovel when times get tough.

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