The hubby decided he wanted to go to a trapper's supply company's open house this weekend. He got Friday off, and I got Saturday off and we reserved a room at the Super 8. We were excited to be going, all of us, just to be getting away for the day. We got everything ready to go, and when Lorenne got off the bus we loaded up the big purple jelly bean (the van) and headed down the lane. I had put new stickers on the mail box earlier in the day, and realizing a grammatical error (misplaced apostrophe), made Josh stop so that I could fix it. Got back in the van, and as we waited for a truck to pass on the road, Josh told me to yell at Howie, our dog, who, by that time, had caught up with us at the end of the half mile lane. (We were only going to be gone for the night, so we didn't bother taking him anywhere to stay. He's a country dog.) Howie was waiting, crouched in the ditch, for that truck. I opened the door to yell and no sooner had his name passed my lips, the inevitable happened. It was the most tragic thing I have seen happen with my own eyes. I flew out of my seat and flung the side door open to hug and comfort and cry with Lorenne. Luckily, Kellen didn't really realize what had happened. Then, poor Lorenne thought he might still be alive and I had to tell her, "No, honey. He's gone. He didn't feel a thing." Josh told me that the driver of the truck was white with sadness, could see he was sick with regret, when he stopped and came back to Josh and Howie. Said he could hear us crying and just felt awful. Josh explained to him that we didn't blame him at all. It was Howie's own fault. That ding-dong mutt dog didn't have an ounce of sense in his head. Never had.
Josh carried Howie's body into the grass on the side of the lane and we drove back up to the house. Found a nice spot under one of the mulberry trees and Josh dug the hole while the kids and I went around and picked up Howie's favorite chew bones to put in with him. After Josh got him buried, we nailed his collar to the tree, and we placed five red tulips on his grave and talked about our favorite memories of him. Kellen liked it when Howie would lick his face. He said it tickled. Lorenne liked it when he would come up to her room and watch her play. I liked it when he would play soccer, really dribbling the ball with his feet and running along. I'd never seen a dog play soccer before. Josh remembered when Howie would lick at his pants leg in one spot until it was nearly soaked with slobber. We also remembered the stuff that drove us nuts. Like when he chased the birds away and got sprayed by skunks ALL THE TIME, and would dig in the flower pots and in the garden, and the time he buried the chicken carcass in the sand box, or how he would bite every sports ball we left outside until he popped it. We loved him in spite of all those irritating things he did, because he was our irritating mutt dog.
We still went to the open house, driving on back roads in the dark through unfamiliar territory until we found the town. But our hearts weren't in it. We came home early yesterday, driving home in the sporadic rain fall, heavy hearted. All because of a dog who thought he could win a game of chicken with a pickup.
Rest in Peace - Howard Johnson Wilham
"Howie"
5/16/07 - 4/17/09
