First Face of Death

My young Irish Setter was still younger than a year old. He was across the tracks at the Pool elevator since he liked the smell of rats.He was not supposed to be there.He was still young enough that he lacked savvy and had separation anxiety in new situations.I first noticed him when I was standing on the platform, the freight train was standing waiting for orders. Then I heard the freight  start to move with that characteristic squeal of axels mobilizing and as I looked under the boxcar, as it was moving with a very low pace, I could see Rusty trying to crawl over the tracks under the boxcar. He made several tentative passes. I yelled at him to no avail. As he tried to slip under the moving boxcar to the platform where I was standing a rear wheel caught him in the midsection. I watched in horror as long freight train wheels passed repeatedly over his body. I ran into the kitchen where my mother comforted me. Bill, the Pool elevator operator and my dad stayed outside after the freight  pulled away. Then my dad came into the station and said, " You have to pick up your dog and bury him." My mother and Bill said, "He can't do that." My dad said I had to do that: it was the only way. So I picked up the two parts of my dog and put him in the wheelbarrow and went about 500 yards down the right-of-way and buried him near the tracks.
    I'm not sure what my dad was thinking, or why, but then I'm not sure he was wrong. I guess  no matter what, we have to face our grief head on. We cannot sanitize the events of our lives. Sorrow and joy are always present in life and  serve to make us whole.Doing what I did probably allowed me to participate in the life and death of something I loved. At fifteen I suddenly took a further step into becoming a big boy. Living on the tracks of the CNR mainline with ten to fifteen trains a day is really no place for a dog. Paradoxically he died trying to get to me for safety. I buried him in the right-of-way where he belonged. It was my turn for him.