Memorials in the desert

Pets may lack human status in our legal system, but in a household they're cherished members of the family who in some ways are treated as if they were human. Owners talk to their pets, feed them, provide them with medical care, buy toys for them and play with them. No wonder, then, that when pets die owners honor them with a human-like burial.

While boondocking in the Arizona desert between Bouse and Quartzsite, I went hiking one day and came upon these grave markers, presumably for pets. The markers did not indicate whether Jake and Rudy were dogs or cats, or when they died. The markers appeared to be relatively new, but they might have been replacements for older ones. Were Jake and Rudy contemporaries, like siblings? Or was one a successor to the other? No question arose, though, about the owners’ sentiments.

The scene reminded me of burying my first dog, Anchor, a spaniel-Pekingese mix, for 10 years my own old friend, my own little buddy. One December night, when we lived in Ketchikan, Alaska, a Black Labrador Retriever trespassed and Anchor bravely tried to defend his turf. His 16 pounds of grit were no match for the Lab, and Anchor died the next day in the local animal hospital.

I chose a quiet spot in the woods where we had often hiked and dug a deep hole. I've always considered myself a logical man not given to superstition or irrational behavior. Yet, before saying a final farewell, I took off my T-shirt and placed it under Anchor's nose so my smell would comfort him in his long, lonely sleep.

After a while the desert sun compelled me to move on. So long, Jake and Rudy. Keep each other company, and know that you too were loved.