R.I.P. Sir Duke, Part 2 – The Burial

It was the strangest feeling, driving to the Ranch with Duke in the truck bed. The last few years he’s ridden in the floorboard of the cab on his bed for comfort. He hadn’t ridden in the truck bed since he was younger; back then he was so energetic Paul had a short chain to make sure he didn’t jump out.

But today he was back in the back. Un-seeable, lying in state in the custom coffin Rex made for him. We made a couple of stops during the trip and I couldn’t help but insist that we take turns going in for lunch or restroom break because one of us needed to stay with Old Duke. Irrational but somehow it made me feel better.

When we arrived at the Ranch it was unusually cool for late May so we changed into long pants and all weather boots. These would serve as our digging clothes, shoveling clothes and funeral service clothes. Paul loaded shovels, work gloves and a few sacks of old hardened sack Crete, then we drove across the pasture to the burial site. Paul dug most of the hole several weeks back on Duke’s last visit to the Ranch, had surrounded it with fencing and covered it with plywood to keep out scavengers. There was evidence that some critter had tried to dig down under and find a new home but it hadn’t made much headway. We flipped the fencing over and away from the hole, removed the plywood. The hole looked big enough to me, and standing there in the pasture near a grove of trees at the base of Duke Hill I didn’t feel much like doing any digging. But we measured the box and decided the hole needed to be a little deeper. Paul took care of that part while I reviewed the scripture and abbreviated order of service I would use. I saved my shoveling energy for returning the dirt to the ground when the hole was filled.

With the hole prepared it was time to move Sir Duke to his final resting place. Even with the handles Rex had in place on each end the coffin with Duke in it was not easy to lift. We got it from the truck to the edge of the 3’ deep hole, but I didn’t have strength to slowly lower my end so Paul climbed down and lowered his end first. We arranged the box perfectly in the center then laid the sacks of now-concrete on top. Even with layers of plastic, baking soda, caulk, glue and screws between the body and the coffin lid we were taking no chances in case scavengers managed to get into the hole. They might do that but they wouldn’t get past the rock hard weights keeping the coffin closed.

I grabbed a shovel and started moving dirt onto Duke’s coffin. The mixture of dirt, red clay and bits of rock seemed to fall gently as if in respect for the majesty and regal presence of Sir Duke. I’m not used to this type of manual labor but it felt right, this proper burial for my husband’s long-time companion. We shoveled until there was not only a filled hole but a mound. Now it was a grave.

It was time to place the marker I’d had made. It was a gift to Paul, something I never asked him about because I knew he would think it a frivolous expense for a dog. But when we placed it at the head of his grave and stepped back to consider the small slab of gray granite with its painted black letters we both knew it was perfect. Regardless of the ravages of time, weather or nature this remembrance stone would always be here, a touchstone to the past for those of us who knew Sir Duke and those to come who would never have that chance.