Life Sketches

Saying goodbye to
Bert, man’s best friend

Bert always watched me, even though he didn’t let on. He was an Irish setter and thought his only purpose was to hunt birds. I’d come home from work and peek through the fence to see him lounging upside down in the grass. Then I’d enter the yard and as soon as he’d see me he’d jump to his feet, his old bones grinding and start hunting up the mourning doves that often light below our hedges. I know it took great effort for him to make this display of vigor as if to say, “You see, boss, I still have it.” Later, he’d swagger up to me for a rewarding pat on the head.

When he was younger, I used to take him down to Brooklyn’s Plumb Beach so that he could work the ducks that stay in the tall grass or on the water down there. He’d never catch any, just keep them on their toes while venting some of his limitless energy. Often he’d swim out in the water after them. One time, while driving to the beach, we were coming off the exit from the parkway when Bert spotted a plane flying low towards Kennedy Airport. He got so excited he jumped out the window while the car was going about forty miles per hour. Luckily he wasn’t run over and only suffered some bone deep abrasions on his legs and chin.

When out for a walk last fall, he stumbled, his nails scraping the concrete. Then he looked up at me as if to say, “Just a minor set back, boss.” He couldn’t hear any more — only my piercing whistle from just a few feet away. He couldn’t see me when I’d stand still at a distance. But up close, he understood hand signals, so I didn’t have to shout or whistle as long as he was looking at me. I was hoping he would last until we went up to our summer camp in Richfield Springs. Not far from the camp there’s a big hay field where I’d take him to run every day. One morning last year I had to stop him or he would’ve driven himself into the ground. Then, after he took a drink, we sat under a droopy willow next to the creek that runs past the edge of the field. The run was our morning ritual for 15 seasons. I hoped he’d some day die there, hunting birds for a gunless master. I would let him run until he dropped. He would go out doing what he couldn’t help himself from doing.

Then I’d bury him in a nearby hedgerow.

But the long winter took its toll and I knew Bert would never run in the field again. He was semiconscious in the station wagon before the vet came out with the mercy shot. I was holding him but I wasn’t sure if he knew it was me. I whistled and he raised his head. That was our goodbye.

I took him home and my wife made a sack out of an old blanket and we buried him in the backyard. I had dug the grave earlier that day. I dug it deep past the loam, down to where the soil is clay and cool. He watched me as he lay on the far side of the yard out of the sun.

When the kids came home from school we told them Bertie Boy was gone and then we read over him a poem about death being only a door. We put a piece of wood on the mound with the name and dates burned in. 16 years.

I keep our front gate closed though there’s no need. I feel him looking out of his house at me.

Last night, I thought I heard him lapping at his water pail.

Bert had dignity — he never begged for a bone. If I’d drop his leash, he wouldn’t run. He’d just pick it up and put it back in my hand. Then I’d pat him on the head. He knew how things were supposed to be. There’s a good boy.