The Burial of R. McKinney

It was a hot August day when my mama called to me as I was finishing up an oil change on my old Toyota. “Son,” she said, “get ready to go. Gene just called and said that Rascal was bad sick and she wants to take him to the doctor!”

Aunt Gene was my mama’s sister, and she was a widow woman whose life revolved around a Boston Terrier. Boy, did she dote on that dog, treated him just like a child.  She and Uncle Alvin never had no children.  Yep, that Rascal was the apple of her eye. I mean, when she sat down to eat she fixed the dog a plate just like hers, right down to desert. Sometimes I believe that dog ate better than I did.

When I heard Mama's call, I wiped the engine oil off my hands and cranked up the Toyota.  She was in the  passenger’s seat by the time the engine came to life. “You better hurry,” she  said, “you know how upset Gene can get!”

The little town of Bradley was disappearing in my rearview mirror as we gained speed. I drove frantically down the country road across Hard Labor Creek  and the branch called Cunning Ford. Mama held her handbag in her lap with white-knuckled hands. We made the usual 20 minute trip in about half the time. Aunt Gene was waiting for us by the road. She had the little Boston Terrier wrapped up in a blanket and her handbag hung on her arm.  She was carrying that dog the way a mother would carry her baby. She climbed in the car with tears streaming down her face and we lit out.

‘Bout halfway to town I heard a whimper from the back seat. "I believe he's gone," she said,  her voice cracking.

"Maybe not," I said, trying to reassure her. "We'll be at the vet's in a few minutes."

Upon arrival she carried the little dog into the doctor's office and, sure enough, he was pronounced DOA.

But that's not the end of the story.

"We have to get a casket!" she said, as she got back into the car. She still had the dead dog wrapped up in the blanket.

"What?" I said.

"Go by Walker's, they were good at Daddy's funeral."

I found myself driving to Walker's Funeral Home, one of the two in town. At the rear  were quite a few parking places, and I parked there. Mama had not said a word, but I could imagine what she was thinking. She had a dim view of Aunt Gene's relationship with her dog. “Get him a nice one,” she said, as she  pushed a roll of bills into my hand as I got out of the car. I entered the backdoor of the mortuary and found myself in a room of thick carpeting, dark wood paneling, and soft music. Almost like an apparition Jackson Walker appeared. We had been classmates in high school. Even then, Jackson had the manner of an undertaker; the sympathetic smile, the soft modulated voice, and radiating an eerie countenance.

"My, my! Is that you Tony Young? I haven't seen you since we put your grandpa away," he said.

"I've been kinda busy," I said, which was sort of the truth. I really do not move in undertaker circles. They kinda give me the heebie jeebies.

"So what can  I do you for?" he asked.

"I need as casket for a dog," I blurted out.

"Oh, okay, let me see what I can find," he said in his undertaker's voice.  "I may have something in the attic. Most people use an infant's casket. And what was the name of the deceased?"

"Rascal, and he was a Boston Terrier," I answered.

"That's a small dog, right? I don't care much for dogs myself. My oldest brother, the one in the Marine Corps; he had a dog. And you know what? It bit me! Never cared much for dogs after that.  I believe Rascal will look good in that little white casket I've got upstairs."

"Could you hurry it up a bit?  Mama and Aunt Gene are waiting for me out in the car with a dead dog, and the air conditioning’s busted on the Toyota."

"I'll be right back," he said, as he scurried up the stairway with his hand on the polished rail to steady his considerable bulk.

He returned quickly with a small white coffin on his shoulder. "That'll be $140," he said.

I peeled seven twenties off the roll Aunt Gene had given me and handed them to him.  He

gave me the casket.

"You give Mrs. Young and Mrs. McKinney my deepest sympathies, you hear," he said as I was almost out of earshot.

I took the casket out to the car, and we put little Rascal in it. By this time he had swollen up a bit and was stiff as a board. I must say he probably looked better than he ever did with his head on that little white lace pillow. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to get the casket into the trunk of the car. There was a piece of rope in the trunk I used to tie the trunk lid down. I would not hazard a guess as to what passersby might have thought they saw.

The drive back to Aunt Gene's house was uneventful. She was sitting in the back seat sobbing. Mama would look at me every now and again and roll her eyes. Seeing an eighty year old woman roll her eyes was kinda funny, but I could only smile because my aunt was broken hearted in the back seat.

Once home Aunt Gene picked a place near the muscadine vine beside the house for Rascal’s final resting place. I placed the small white casket on the ground and  went to find some digging tools.  It was about 2:30 or 3 in the afternoon and I’m sure the temperature was nearing triple digits. My Lynard Skynard tee shirt was wringing wet, and my Levis and BVDs would be next.  I scrounged up a mattock and a shovel and began to work. I pulled a bandanna from my pocket and wiped the sweat from my eyes.  As I looked to the sky, what did I see but rock birds.  When I was younger I had worked some with my Uncle Alvin digging water wells. Every time we would see those buzzards in the sky he would call them rock birds.  And sure enough we would almost always hit rock while digging. I sure hoped I wouldn’t hit rock digging this grave. But I’m sure that rock would not have been much harder than the red clay I was digging. It had not rained in two months.  In August, with no rain and the hot sun, even your tomatoes would get blisters. I sneaked around the house and brought two five gallon buckets of water to try to soften the clay.  I would’ve carried more but was afraid I would take too much water from a well that seemed to be going dry. Lot of folks’ wells went dry in the hot summer with little rain.

About two hours later I finished the job. I grabbed a bunch of bitter weeds with their bright yellow flowers and put them on the grave. I was tired, and about the only thing dry on my body was the tops of my socks. Thank goodness, she didn't want a tombstone!