The Puppy Died
© 1999 Don Rogers
A group of teenagers were in my charge as we went off to West Virginia to engage in an Appalachian Service Project. We worked hard, on houses, while staying in a school. There were two dogs that hung around the school, apparently strays, an older dog and a puppy.
As you might expect, the teenagers made friends with the dogs and, when it came time to leave, talked me into taking the puppy back home with us. We got into our two vans and took off for home. Along the way we got some frantic signals from the van with the dog in it. It turned out the puppy dog had died. I have no idea from what.
The teenagers, especially the girls who had been the ones who insisted we take the puppy home with us, were nearly hysterical in their grief. What to do? We went to a WalMart and bought a shovel and drove back to a rest area to bury the dog. The attendant at that rest stop said there was no way he could allow us to bury that dog there but if we wanted he wouldn't stop us from going up the hill across the way.
The hills of West Virginia can be pretty to look at but they can also be hard to dig a grave big enough for a dog. We scraped through the rocks to dig a fitting grave and then had an appropriate ad hoc funeral service.
Those teenagers learned from those work camps and had important memories of them. The one they remember most, the one they always mentioned when we traveled that same highway in later years on other trips, was the death and funeral of the puppy. It seemed to create a bond amongst them like nothing else could.