My grandfather was a good man. He was a simple man. He had a tradition that I could not understand as a little kid. When I first heard about it, I was heartbroken. He was an avid rabbit hunter and loved dogs. He combined those two loves with his favorite breed of dog: beagles. He would often have two at a time, and in my earliest memories he had a pair named Tuffy and Burrito. They were energetic, lively, fun-loving dogs! He had glorious hunting stories, and he loved to tell how passionate those dogs were for hunting rabbits. If he took them out hunting too late at night, he couldn’t even call them in. They had such an in-born desire to be on the trail for rabbits. In those instances, he would lay down his coat to serve as a bed for his dogs, and he would then head back to camp. In the morning, he would find his dogs curled up and waiting for him right there on his coat. They knew their master. They knew what he smelled like, and when all the energy was burnt up, they wanted to be with him.
When my grandpa’s dogs got too old to hunt, and when he could tell they were suffering, he had a quiet tradition: He would take them out to camp, spend the day with them, and then to my initial dismay, he would shoot and bury his dogs. My eyes fill with tears at the thought of it. I didn’t understand it, especially because my grandpa was an emotional man. A dyed in the wool Italian, he loved coffee, scripture, and a good hymn. A convert to the Faith, I still remember driving in his truck with him and watching tears roll down his face as he listened to Amazing Grace. Why on earth would my grandpa have a tradition like this?
In this day and age, when everything is sanitized, clean, and fake, this tradition does not make sense. I imagine my grandpa there. I imagine that day, and the dread that he faced in taking the lives of his dogs, and the tears that rolled down his face; silent, quiet tears that no one ever saw. I imagine him burying his beloved dogs – all by himself. What was this sacred act all about?
I’ve come to realize that this act that my grandpa undertook was an act of manliness. Facing dread and sorrow, facing the end of a part of life that meant something deeply to him. It would have been easier to look away, to have his dogs put to sleep. But he faced this reality, this deep mystery, head on. Suffering inevitably is a part of love. In love, we make ourselves vulnerable. Woundable. I think my grandpa understood that, and he embraced it.
My grandpa honored his dogs that final day. I think this was a silent prayer. An offering to God of gratitude and sorrow, acknowledging the deep mystery of love and suffering that is found in this life.
