December 9, 1998
Real-life Symbolism
Something this week has made me remember when our first dog died. His name was Quincy, a beagle/terrier mix, who from what I remember (I was only 8 at the time) was human. This dog appreciated good song and beer. I'm not kidding.
He had suffered for a few months with the buildup of fluid in his lungs, and ultimately he was put to sleep one summer weekend. I never got the chance to say goodbye to him. I remember my Dad returning without Quincy. It didn't really make sense at that age, but a post-mortem revealed a tumor in his lungs.
I guess that night my parents removed from their bedroom the little dog bed Quincy had slept in. They placed outside the patio doors onto our deck, right underneath the overhang of the roof. We got another dog the next day.
That bed remained outside for several weeks, soaking in the rain and slowly melting its color away from it all. More important, some sort of hanging basket was over it, and pink blossoms began to cover the damp, tawnish fuzzy cloth of the bed. It probably had a musty smell to it by then, no longer that rich aroma that only dog lovers really know to love.
It soon came up the question on what do with the bed. Our other dog was sleeping on my parents' bed by now, and it was doubtful if he would rest there. The elements had heard it as well. In my innocence, I also piped in, "It might still have the germs." I didn't understand tumors, but I meant well. Mom and Dad decided to toss out the bed, funeral petals and all. One morning, it was gone.
I never saw Quincy die; I never said goodbye; I never saw his bed leave my parents' room; I never saw the bed go to the trash. Quincy is still alive.