We knew it was you, Fredo

Well crap. I had it almost done and then Firefox crashed on my and I lost it. And it's hard to write this sort of thing, so I just walked away for a few days. But anyway, here goes again: Fredo is dead.

He was killed by a car on Monday. He'd been trying to get out the whole weekend before. It's not really that he wanted to escape, but that there were Things To Chase on the other side of the fence. My boy was dedicated to chasing Things. A dedication like that often overrides cautions. Like looking before you dash into the street. Like noticing that cars don't really heed that 25 mph sign. I'd just finished repairing the fence when I heard the tires squeal. From the sounds of the screech, the car was flying up the street. There wasn't even a yelp. I knew immediately, though.

The car was a brand new red BMW. The driver looked like the banjo kid from Deliverance. Rotten peg teeth, flat affect. There was a woman fluttering around the site and I thought she'd hit him, given that she was saying, “Oh my god oh my god” over and over. She asked if it was my dog. I said it was. She said, “Oh, I'm so sorry!” but when I asked if she'd hit him--all the while trying to soothe her, tell her it wasn't her fault, he shouldn't have been out—she said no, and pointed out Banjo Kid. He never said a word, just kind of grin/leered uncomfortably until I told him to just go.

Julianna was on the porch, keening like an Irish widow. Ben was sobbing. Lily was dancing around calling, “Mommy! Can I see?” Mr. Winter, our across the street neighbor, got his recycling bin, put Fredo in it, and asked where I wanted to bury him. We've lived here two years. In that time, the only communication we've had from the Winters was a note—put on our door two weeks after we moved in—that said “Do not use my driveway as a turn around. Mr. Winter” They don't wave hi, they don't smile indulgently at the kids, nothing. I'd taken to petty revenge, like putting the grubs from my garden in his bushes or telling my guests to turn around in his drive. But here he was, with my dead dog. He got a pick and a shovel and he dug a hole in the dry hard ground and he buried our dog while I comforted my kids. It was like the end of some crappy tearjerker Hallmark movie. But in real life it really does make me cry.

I say I comforted my kids. In actuality, I only had to offer comfort to the big ones. Lily danced and twirled under the maple trees, regaling Mr. Winter with all sorts of stories while he dug. She was unfazed, quite willing to check out the body and then describe it, happily, to any who would listen (“Mommy! Fredo had blood on his tongue!” “yeah. Let's not mention that to Julianna, okay?”). It was at turns maddening (this is SAD, dammit!) and sweet (life goes on) to have her continue on in her chatty, bouncy way.

We took Mr. Winter a dozen ears of corn and a bouquet of zinnias from our garden. He even smiled and teased at Lily a bit while we were there. Later, his wife came over to express sympathy and thank us for the corn. And now we say hi to one another when we're outside. And I won't toss my grubs on his lawn.

It was a hard couple of nights. Julianna and Ben tended to really fall apart at night and I wasn't holding it together all that well, either. Lily remained fine (“Fredo's tongue was hanging out like this. Can I have a carrot?”). We had a funeral on Wednesday, when the stone we'd made was dry. I read as much of Dog Heaven as I could, totally losing it on the part where the dogs come back to earth to check on their families.

We miss him. I miss his silly tufty hobbit feet. I miss his fancy ears and the way he looked SO happy to see me. He was a good boy when he wasn't being a bad boy. I have to be honest and say that his death has solved a lot of problems—we don't have gates all over the house, I can leave the doors open, the cats venture downstairs again, I can be gone all day without guilt or worry—but I sure wish it didn't have to be like this. You were a good boy, Fredo. Come back and visit. But not in a zombie way.