Gator Country

Goodbye Shasta

Shasta is not able to get up or move this morning. She’s lived a good long life, but it looks like it’s time to put her down. She looks so sad, the poor dog. I talk to her, pat her head, try to comfort her. Carol calls the vet to let them know they’re bringing Shasta in. Rick carries the dog out to the van.

After they leave, I pour myself a glass of iced tea, sit at the table. The jacket Shasta was lying on is still there on the floor. Nearby is her brush, and a feed dish, still nearly full. This dog will be missed.

I take the boat out for a ride. It’s not too hot yet. I pass a cormorant standing on a dock, wings spread, warming itself in the morning sun. Further down the lake, I motor by one of the birds, its body submerged, with only its head and neck visible. I see why the locals call them “snake-birds”. It’s peaceful out here on the lake, with only the birds and dragonflies for company.

It’s starting to get hot when I pull the boat back up to the dock. Cicadas are buzzing in the trees as I walk back up to the house. I spot a dead roach near the door, being eaten by fire ants. The circle of life is being completed, the body being recycled to feed the ants. The same will happen to Shasta, she will be buried in the yard, the nutrients recycled to create new life.

It seems like modern people try to avoid this, embalming their dead with poisonous preservatives, encasing them in steel coffins and cement mausoleums. I think an old-fashioned pine box in the dirt would be much more natural, if you want to be buried. Me, I’m opting for cremation. I don’t want anyone crying over a tombstone with my body buried beneath. When I’m gone, I’m gone. My body will be an empty shell. Burn it, and scatter my ashes to the wind.

Carol and Rick still aren’t back, so I decide to cool off in the pool. I sit on the steps, watching as a beetle floats by, struggling in the water. I reach out with the pool skimmer, rescue it and toss it on the lawn. Why do I save something that I would step on if it were crawling across the kitchen floor? I don’t know; I just feel sorry for it.

Maybe I’m thinking about the randomness of life. If we’re lucky, we get 25 or 30 thousand days on this planet, but no matter how old or young you are, there are no guarantees that you will live past today. My plane might crash tomorrow; or I could get hit by a truck driving to the airport. I play the odds. My chance of being in a plane crash is pretty slim, statistically speaking. And if I don’t drive recklessly, my odds are pretty good of making it to the airport intact. But again, there are no guarantees in this life. Nothing is certain except death and taxes, as they say.

Carol and Rick return, pull the van up onto the lawn. They decide to bury Shasta in the yard under a tree. I help clear some of the old wood and debris out of the way, then Rick starts digging. I offer to help, but he says he wants to do it. I go inside, boot up the PC, and reach Viv and Nick on the Yahoo messenger, and we chat a while. I let Rick and Carol bury their pet in private.

I don’t do much the rest of the day, everyone’s kinda in a down mood about the dog. I shoot a little pool with Rick, we have a few beers, that’s about it. Tomorrow I have to get up and drive back to Orlando, catch my flight home. Wish I had more time to stay, but it will be good to get back home, see Viv and Nick again. Not looking forward to work, though. It’ll probably take me a week to catch up there.