The perils of burying your beloved pet in the backyard

A few years ago, on an unseasonably mild January day, I took “the girls” out for their afternoon walk. The girls are my two dogs—16-year-old Harry, a Lab/collie cross named after my mother, Elizabeth Harriet; and 11-year-old Roger, a collie/shepherd. The great thing about my Summerhill apartment is that it overlooks a park, which means I can be in green space in a matter of seconds—important if you have an older dog.

We had just stepped outside when Harry suddenly collapsed by the front walk. Due to the muscle atrophy in her hindquarters, she often took her time getting up, so I didn’t think much of it when she stayed put while Roger and I did our usual circuit around the park. But when we returned and she still hadn’t moved, I knew something was wrong. I carried her up to the apartment, put her on my bed and let her sleep. Soon her eyes became glazed and her jaw clenched, and I realized the last trumpet was sounding.

I had always known what I would do when she died. I have a farm—a restored Loyalist homestead called Cressy House—near Waupoos in Prince Edward County, where I spend big chunks of the year. When Harry’s brother Henry was hit by a car 10 years ago, I buried him in my orchard between the rows of apricot trees. Harry, whom I had adopted as a six-week-old pup, took over the position of top dog in the family. My plan was to bury her next to Henry.

Early the next morning, I phoned my neighbour Frank on County Road 8 and asked him to dig a new grave with his backhoe. I then called our vet in Picton, hoping he could be on standby at the clinic. He had always looked after Harry and would know what to do. Harry wasn’t quite gone, but she was convulsing at regular intervals. I gently placed her in the back of my Honda Element, and we set out just as the sun broke free of the horizon, infusing our two-hour journey to the County with glorious morning light. A little past 9 a.m., the vet met us in the parking lot of his clinic to sedate and then euthanize Harry.

There was a stillness in the air and a promise of early spring as I drove the rest of the way to Cressy House. I backed the car across the frozen orchard to the site where Frank had prepared a grave. In a melancholic mood, I decided to retrieve a few of Harry’s favourite things from the house to bury with her—the leash she carried in her mouth to let me know she wanted a walk; the yellow patchwork quilt that covered her favour­ite armchair in the kitchen. It was only then I noticed a car in the courtyard and realized that, it being Tuesday, my housekeeper, Sandy, was there cleaning.

Sandy could hear the distraught timbre of my voice as I explained that wonderful old Harrikins had suffered a stroke and that I’d driven her out to the Picton hospital to be put down. She listened intently, a look of disbelief creeping over her face. Perhaps because of my forlorn state, perhaps because of the numerous family photos scattered throughout the house with references to my mother “Harry,” she assumed “Harrikins” was a term of endearment for my mom. I told her not to worry, that I had already prepared a grave out in the orchard, and then I slipped back outside.

Sandy stood on the front porch and watched while, off in the distance, I carried a body wrapped in a duvet from the back of the car and lowered it into the ground. I shovelled fresh earth back into the grave and then sat for a long time amid the tangle of apricot branches. By the time I returned to the house to say goodbye, Sandy was visibly shaken. “Is everything OK?” she kept asking. I was touched by her concern, told her that, yes, I would be alright, then got in the car to head back to the city.

That night over dinner at her house, Sandy told her boyfriend, Brian, about the odd behaviour of her client down past Waupoos. Brian was a rookie police officer—a recent recruit to the OPP detachment in Picton. He asked Sandy to give him a tour of the property.

Three days later, I returned to Waupoos for the weekend. As I drove down the steep hill toward my property, I noticed yellow police tape cordoning off a section of the orchard. Two unmarked police cars blocked the access to my lane. A number of people stood by as a tractor excavated the ground between the trees. Part of me wanted to flee—not out of fear or guilt but out of confusion. Why were they digging up my dog?

I approached the group and introduced myself to the fellow who seemed to be in charge—Constable Brian. He suggested that perhaps I could come down to the station for a chat. A chat? About what?

Is that the same as an interrogation? Just then, Harry’s body was raised out of the ground, frozen and intact.

A lot of mumbling and shuffling of feet ensued, followed by the suggestion that I might need a permit to bury an animal on private property. Brian never came clean about the reason for the exhumation; it was only a couple of weeks later, over coffee with Sandy, that I learned the real motivation behind CSI: Waupoos.

The story spread quickly throughout the County, and Harry and I have gained semi-celebrity status. I even heard that a musician wrote a song called “Be Careful Who You Bury,” which was making the rounds of the local pubs. I had a stone­mason engrave a limestone marker with “Harry and Henry: Nothing is the same without you,” and placed it in the orchard. And occasionally I see cars slow down at the curve in the road beside my property to take a picture of the grave beneath the apricot trees.

Alan Gratias is the creator of the game Gravitas and other entertainment products.

E-mail submissions to memoir@torontolife.com

(Illustration by Sergio Jiménez)

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