Turkey and Grave…y

“We have a situation.” my mom whispered, 30 minutes after we’d arrived at my grandpa’s house in rural Arkansas for Thanksgiving.

“What do you mean, ‘situation’?” I asked.

“Sam is dying. And we can’t find him.” she answered.

It took me a minute to process what she was saying, partly because it didn’t make sense; mostly because it was late and I was a little preoccupied trying to clean the toddler’s clothes and car seat from where he vomited during the road trip after eating 2 pounds of gas station gummy worms and Taco Bell, in that order.

“Sam is dying…and he’s missing.” I repeated.

“Correct.” she confirmed.

Sam, of course, was my Papa’s ancient hunting dog – the latest in a long line of bird dogs. That he was old enough to die was not a shock; that he was MIA, probably crawling off to die in the middle of the yard where my children would stumble upon his body the next morning was.

“We have a situation.” I whispered to Taylor, a few moments later. “And you’re going to need a flashlight.”

We couldn’t find Sam that night. We couldn’t find Sam in the morning.

We hesitantly let the kids play in the yard the next day, hoping and praying they would not be the ones to discover the beloved dog.

They are explorers and adventurers, my boys, so it was only a matter of time before they found the skeleton…

…of a random animal. Coyote, maybe?

Still no sign of Sam in all that exploring, though.

About mid-day on Wednesday, Papa got a call from his neighbor.

They found Sam, alive. Barely.

We brought him home, set him up in the yard with some food and water, and watched the boys play around him, blissfully unaware that he had hours to live.

“That Sam sure does sleep a lot.” – the 4 year old

Wednesday came and went, and then it was Thursday. Thanksgiving Day.

The whole family together eating, laughing, playing games, checking out the dining room window to see if Sam was still alive every 30 minutes or so…it was a beautiful day.

It wasn’t until later that night that Sam gave up the good fight.

And so it was, Thanksgiving night 2018, we dug a plot and buried our grandpa’s dog.

Where, specifically?

“Well, there’s about 3 or 4 other dogs buried by the corn in the garden. Just anywhere over there is fine.” – Papa

Listen…it’s not that we’re irreverent.

It’s not that Sam’s death wasn’t sad.

It’s just that Alex was wearing loafers, Taylor was dressed in an Oxford shirt (because “I didn’t exactly pack grave-digging clothes.”), and my dad was doing a mouth-trumpet rendition of Taps.

And so we laughed. A lot.

Whilst we buried dear old Sam.

We laughed until Papa came out, then sobered into respectful silence, waiting for some sort of eulogy. He walked over, looked at the freshly dug hole where Sam lay, said, “Well now you put the dirt back on ‘im.” and walked back inside.

I was grateful Sam waited to die until the kids were in bed, but apparently my seven year old wandered into the kitchen while all of us were outside digging in the dark.

“What are they doing?” he asked my aunt, looking out the window.

“Oh…you know…just looking at this cool constellation app Uncle Von has on his phone.” she replied.

But because he picks up on everything, “Then what are the shovels for?“

Aunt Terri:

I went in later to talk to him.

I explained that Sam had been really old and really sick. “But isn’t it sweet that he had all this family around to love on him during his last few days here?”

“Yeah.” said my boy. “It’s kinda like we do with our old friends at the nursing home.”

OHMYWORD YES.

But also, Ms. Bonnie might have longer than 36 hours. So let’s not announce that we’re loving her to death *just* yet.

Ohhhhh, Thanksgiving.

I’m thankful for my giant-hearted kids, for the kind of family who will pick up flashlights and shovels when need be, for the kind of laughter that makes you pee a little, and for unforeseen holiday moments that miraculously combine all of those things.