Roscoe's Farewell
Roscoe's Farewell
The dog played in the snow all afternoon. When we called it in, it
was shivering, and it took hours of warm towel rubbings before it settled
down. Then it slept like a baby. Then it didn't get up in the morning
we were worried. Finally my mother went to take its temperature and
that's when we realized it was dead. We were all so sad we didn't know
what to do. Dad said we should bury it in the backyard, with a full
ceremony. So we dug a hole and decided on some scripture to read. Janet
picked out some music to play. The next morning we went out to look at
the grave and it was all torn up and Roscoe was gone. There were footprints
in the snow, so we followed them. They went on for several blocks until
we found him playing by a lake with several other dogs. He wouldn't come
when we called him. We had to chase him and tackle him before we could lead
him home. When we got him in the house he was sweet as ever. We fed him and
he cozied up on the couch next to us. We still didn't know how we could
have mistaken him for dead. Weeks went by as normal. Then, just as spring
was coming on, Roscoe was hit by a car right in front of out house. This
time we were sure he was dead and buried him in the previous hole we had
not filled in. This time without scripture or music. We just threw him in
and covered it up with the old dirt. A week went by and then one day in
the schoolyard at recess, there he was, as pert and lively as ever before.
I called to him and he came to me. I was so glad to see him I didn't know
what to do. My parents were happy, too, though a little confused. We
welcomed him home, fed him mightily, and played with him as much as he
liked. We thought he might live forever. But slowly we forgot about that
and he was just Roscoe our old dog whom we took for granted and barely
remembered to feed. He fell ill one day and we didn't even call the vet
because, I guess, we thought he would live forever. But he didn't. He
died a week later and this time we didn't even bother to throw him in the
hole, so sure were we that he would come back to life. We just laid him
on the back porch and waited for the miracle to happen a third time.
Flies gathered and fnally he turned to dust. We swept the back porch
as we always had before. Roscoe disappeared forever among the flowerpots
and old tin cans, saying goodbye to this world one last time.
James Tate