Our very first dog was a collie shepherd mix my brother and I named, with a stunning ‘60s lack of originality, Lassie.
Lassie was chill and tended to wander the neighborhood unless she was flumped on our front stoop watching small-town life go by. She would tolerate headlocks and eat food I rejected from her ready position under my chair at the table. One time she tried to run alongside a guy on a motorcycle and he kicked her, hard. Our mom called the guy a big jerk, which was, for her, the equivalent of fucking asshole.
I was in fourth grade when Lassie began to decline. Something was wrong with her hips, so she quit rambling in favor of dozing. My brother, sister, and I would go off on our adventures, coming back in time for dinner and to give her a quick pat or fur ruffle but only if we thought of it. In those final years, she became more of a fixture than a companion, but still, we loved her, and she was ours.
One morning we were in the car going to school when Mom said she was taking Lassie to the vet, which made sense, because the night before, for the first time in her life, she’d left the Alpo in her bowl untouched.
That afternoon, when we got home from school, Mom told us that Lassie died. The vet said she was very, very sick, my mom said, so the loving thing to do was put her to sleep. In her words, this was like slipping into a sweet dream and never waking up. There were tears, of course, but the next day Mom drove us to the vet’s office and pointed to a maple tree near the parking lot. That’s where Lassie is buried, she told us, so for years and years, every time we drove past the vet’s, I’d wave to Lassie.
I was a thirty-something adult when I found out that in fact Mom had come upon Lassie in the kitchen after rigor mortis had already set in. She wrapped Lassie in a blanket and somehow maneuvered her out to the car and into the trunk. After driving us to school, she took Lassie’s body to the little mortuary next to the vet’s office that connected to the incinerator.
I lived 37 years of my life believing that Lassie drifted peacefully off into forever dreamland and was buried under a maple tree. I have lived every year since I found out the actual truth in awe of my mother’s ability to hold a gritty reality while creating a poignant memory for her children.
I did not adopt my mother’s discretion bulwark in time for my own kids, who were at the mercy of my oversharing. Of late, though, I have been more consistent at managing my mom’s reserve, so I can hopefully pass along to my grandkids her generous gift of holding back.