I sat on the mossy parking-lot edge and ate the steaming oatmeal. I have a specific recipe I've figured out: one packet, then water to a two-thirds mark, two more packets, and a table spoon of granola and a teaspoon of peanut butter. It gets me through the morning. I listened to the sound of a squirrel carrying out a dedicated artillery attack on something down below it. It sounded like a constant barrage, from where I sat. I wouldn't have been surprised to see divots in the ground.
I stood up. What is with this squirrel?
I walk towards the sounds, and I see a small red sign in the woods. Huh? this is curious. I scramble up the bank, oatmeal cup in hand, and read the sign.
CASSIE
YOU WILL BE MISSED
Under the sign, which was wrapped in plastic and affixed to a rough cross of two sticks, there was a layer of fresh pine boughs cut down and layered over the broken earth. On this branch confusion were laid some large rocks. It had the hallmarks of a grave. It was large enough for a large dog, maybe a lab or a german shepherd or a golden retriever. It gave me pause, for a minute, and I left. When I finished my oatmeal, I came back to give my respects.
Peter Jenkins had to bury a dog in woods a lot like this. And in fact, how many dogs are buried in places like this across the state? If you don't have a back yard but you do lose a dog, where exactly is the right place to bury it? Where's the wrong? This is probably not the most beautiful nor the most fitting spot for a touching ceremony, but not only does the dog not mind, she probably loved these woods more than anything. I can picture her crashing through the sticks and leaves, chasing squirrels and groundhogs, coming back to the truck covered in burrs and mud, tongue flapping out to one side as pink as you like.
God rest you, Cassie.
I mounted up on my bike and tried to make my way back to where Google had me yesterday, not that it was working well today. I had no GPS signal, and I was just running on intuition and luck. I plowed my way up a hill and Google came back online. The voice informed me that the hill I had just climbed was completely erroneus and I should have stayed at the bottom. Fine. I'll just fly along the ridge for a mile or three until I get to the crossroad where I should have been had I not made the hill. On my way down the ridge, though, I saw the flash of metal through the trees. Oh! It's cars. It's a junk yard, and a big one. I started glancing through the trees to my right and what I saw just got more impressive. Pretty soon, I was making qualified statements like: "This is probably the biggest junkyard I have seen in years," followed by "This is definitely the biggest junkyard I can remember seeing," followed by "This is just the biggest junkyard I have ever seen, bar none, and I don't think I'll see a bigger unless I look for it." The acres of twisted wrecks and shining forgotten hood ornaments was a testament to the frailty of man's inventions, and it engendered in me an awe I hadn't felt standing above Cassie. And yet, this graveyard of automobiles, though it impressed me, hadn't left half the impression that the humble grave in the woods had struck me with.
How do I communicate this?
The cars were interesting. Cassie was meaningful.
The cars were impressive. Cassie was important.
The cars were big. Cassie is big. She's bigger in my memory and bigger in my heart, and I didn't even know her.
I passed two seats of death on the 25th, but only one of them is the reason I'm writing this.
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