About Zack

Yesterday was the anniversary of our dog's passing, but there was no way I was going to post not-really-a-tribute to not-really-a-bright-dog on 9/11. So here it is today instead.

Zack was, no bones about it, an annoying dog. We "rescued" him from a shelter so have no way of knowing if he was just born irritating or if Bad Things happened to him in his first home that made him so. He barked a lot, he followed me absolutely everywhere I went, he jumped up on counters and stole the food thereon, he had a pathological need to steal and eat kleenexes, he had to be carried bodily into the vet's office for every appointment. He did have one endearing trait -- if you scratched him on just the right spot on his neck, he'd go into a deep trance. Mostly he was a nuisance. We loved him, as people do love even annoying dogs, but I'm not going to pretend that he was the Best Dog Ever because he just wasn't.

The Sunday afternoon he died, I was sitting in the living room, no doubt feeding the baby and watching Noggin, which is how I had spent the previous nine weeks of my life. Suddenly I heard all the neighborhood dogs break into a howl. This happens fairly frequently, but usually only in the evening or the middle of the night, so I wondered what was up. About an hour later I went to call our dogs into the house and realized that Zack was dead. (I made Chris go out and confirm it. And Chris had to deal with taking Zack's body away, too. Thank you Chris, I know that wasn't fun.) I only remembered the howling dogs a few hours later. Coincidence? All of Zack's comrades announcing his ascent? I leave it to you to decide.

All things considered, we were glad that Zack had passed away quickly and quietly and in his favorite spot in the backyard instead of having some dread illness that would have dragged on for months. We did have him autopsied (although I think it's called a necropsy for dogs) but it was inconclusive, so we still don't know what happened.

Adding to the pall cast by his death was the fact that my maternity leave ended the very next day. I schlepped to the office and was dealing with a backlog of emails when the vet called and gave me the number of a pet crematorium, should I want Zack's remains returned to us. I called the crematorium -- a company called Faithful Friends -- and here's where the story might get entertaining. "I need to arrange for the cremation of my dog," I said, and the man on the phone said, "I'm so sorry for your loss. What can you tell me about your baby?"

I had a moment of complete cognitive dissonance because, as I'd said, I'd just returned from maternity leave and was of course worrying obsessively about Phoebe. I stared at the phone and wondered how on earth this cremater of dogs knew that I'd just left my baby behind for the very first time and how I was so so sad and how she wouldn't take a bottle and she'd probably be just starved by the time I got home, and then I realized he meant Zack. By "my baby" he meant my dog. So I collected myself and answered his questions and arranged for Zack's final, um, journey.

A week later he called me and said that Zack was...done. I said that I could come pick him up on Friday. I added, "I may have my 3-year-old daughter with me...will she be able to see anything that may upset her?" Because, you see, I had never been to a pet crematorium before and I wasn't clear as to the set up. "Oh no," he said. "It's just a storefront."

"Oh that's fine then," I said.

"We do all the cremating in the back," he said.

"All right," I said, not really needing more details.

"In fact, my 3-year-old daughter comes to work with me all the time!" he said jovially.

"Oh how nice," I lied.

On Friday I picked Mallory up from preschool and set off for Faithful Friends. We had, naturally, told her that Zack had died, and she had been sad for about ten minutes. I did not, also naturally, intend on telling her what had happened to Zack's body, so I just told her that we had to run an errand. "What kind of errand?" she asked. "Oh, I just need to pick up a package," I said. "What kind of package?" she asked. "Oh, just something," I said. "Is it for me?" she asked. "No, no, it's for me," I said. "But what is it?" she asked, and on and on and on and why are children always curious at precisely the worst times?

We got to the crematorium -- which was just a brick building with nothing sinister-looking about it -- and went inside the office. Mr. Friends greeted us and offered his condolences. I was trying really really hard to not mention "dog" or "death" or "Zack" or "ashes" because of Miss Little Pitcher. We sat down at his desk and conversed. He told Mallory that his daughter's birthday was the next day. Mallory asked if there was to be cake. I wondered if the daughter was lurking amongst the memorials in the showroom. Then Mr. Friends discreetly slid an invoice across the desk towards me. I equally discreetly wrote him a check (the going rate for cremating a 60-pound dog? $100). He said that attached to the invoice was a copy of "The Rainbow Bridge," but he suggested that I save it for later because it was a real tear-jerker. I said that I was familiar with the work, thank you. Then, as Mallory hung over my shoulder and wanted to know what we were talking about, Mr. Friends slid a velvet-encased box across the desk and said, "And here is Zack."

"Okay then!" I said loudly, standing up and pushing Mallory behind me. I don't know how it was that she didn't hear him say it, but she was luckily oblivious. I took the box, grabbed my purse, picked up Phoebe's carseat, grabbed Mallory's hand, and tried to beat a hasty retreat out of there. Unfortunately I didn't have any free hands to open the door. Mr. Clueless stood up and hovered around and said -- because obviously the panic wasn't showing on my face -- "Will you let me carry Zack to the car for you?"

My god! Shut up, dude! "Yes that's fine," I said, dragging my children to the parking lot. I opened the car door and stowed and buckled and seat-belted and I was just daring the guy (in my head) to mention my dead dog -- nay, the ashes of my dead dog -- in front of my little girl again. Because then I could have...well, I don't know what I could have done. I'm not one to, you know, beat people senseless or even give them a good tongue-lashing. I'm not even good at icy stares. But I woulda done something! Luckily for him and us, he didn't mention Zack again. I took the box and thanked him and off we went and Mallory never knew what had happened. And Zack now rests on a shelf in our garage. We've talked about burying the box in the yard and planting a nice tree or bush in the spot but we're not very good at growing things so that wouldn't be much of a tribute.

For months afterward Mallory would suddenly turn out her lip and say, "I'm really sad because Zack is dead." We got her an excellent book, Dog Heaven, which she asked to read every night for about three weeks. I defy anyone, anyone, to read that book without getting a little choked up, much less someone who just lost a dog that was fluffy and white like the dog in the pictures. By the end of the three weeks I could almost read this line, the best line, without crying: "Every dog becomes a good dog in Dog Heaven." For Zack's sake I hope that is true.