Today would have been my beloved dog’s second birthday. He was hit by a logging truck on Oct. 6, 2022 due to human negligence. His death left a hole in my heart. I wrote the following piece for a presentation at my library called My Story.

October 6 was the worst day of my life. I had just started a new job at a retail store in Winthrop when I got a phone call from my mom.

“Melfi was hit by a car.” There was a pause after her dejected, helpless statement.

“He’s dead,” was the next statement.

“Polina is still in class. She doesn’t know yet.”

“My dog was hit by a car,” I said to my new boss. “What do I do? Should I go?” I wanted to go, but I thought it would be polite to ask.

“Go,” she told me.

I was on auto pilot. Melfi was my dog. My beautiful German Shorthair Pointer. I had just seen him that morning before I left for work. He was in front of my car, facing the field, before I pulled out of the parking space in the drive way.

I was numb driving back. I felt hollow. I arrived to find my 10 y.o. daughter crying over a corpse. She doesn’t cry normally, and if she does, it’s not as deep as what I heard that day. I kneeled toward my dog. I picked up his head. I had never seen a dead dog.

Melfi, he was named after the psychiatrist on the melodrama serial the Sopranos. Dr. Melfi. I loved that name and thought, if I ever have a dog, I will name him Melfi.

My dog was fast. Super fast. The fastest dog at the dog park. I moved from the west side. That’s what we have over there for dogs. Dog parks. I was so proud of him. On the other hand, he could be stubborn. He didn’t come when I asked him to. When I commanded him to. When I yelled at him to. He had that expression. That look of yes, I hear you and no, I’m not listening. That expression in his eyes of yes, I need you and yes- I’m my own person. That’s what did him in. My beautiful, fast, 17 month old German Shorthair Pointer, now lying limp.

I’m not going to into details of what death looks like. On the one hand, it’s squeamish and on the other hand, there’s all this interest around it. I’ve become vegetarian since moving to the country. I can’t stand death. I never want to see a dead anything. I rescue spiders.

I hugged my dog.

“He’s still warm,” said my stepfather.

I wanted him to shut up. I wanted to just be with my dog, but it made them uncomfortable. I remember wanting to hold my cat longer when she died from anesthesia. I wasn’t allowed to hold her either.

Then came the words that changed our relationship forever.

“He liked to chase after logging trucks.”

What? I asked, in a state of shock. I heard her, I just couldn’t understand her.

She repeated what she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you.”

No you didn’t. All those times we had dinner together, my mother never told me. How could she not tell me? How can you sit across from someone at the dinner table and not tell them that your dog ran after a logging truck? Wouldn’t that be something worth mentioning?

“He liked to chase after logging trucks,” said my stepfather. What? Did he know too? I’m the only one that didn’t know?

Later, I asked my daughter. Did you ever hear that Melfi chased after logging trucks? No, she said.

There was no time for that now. My stepfather and I started digging. My cat came over, ready to jump into the grave.

“You’re not going in there,” said my mom, almost jokingly. This wasn’t funny. I wasn’t in a fun mood. How could they not tell me?

I was livid, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I took a shovel and began to dig automatically. I was on auto pilot. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just kept repeating the same pattern. Digging. Shoveling, moving dirt.

How did I find myself in this situation? Going through a divorce, living in a small town on my family’s property, unemployed except for a retail job. Now my dog is dead. What the expletive.

If I had known, I would have put up an invisible fence. I would have kept him in my house when I wasn’t home. He died from human error. This was entirely preventable.

I called my ex-husband. It was his idea to purchase the dog, to somehow bring our family together.

“This is your fault,” he said to me. “If you hadn’t left, he would still be alive. He wouldn’t be running around in Twisp near a road.”

Wow. Another dagger to my heart. At a time when I needed comfort, I couldn’t get it. 21 years together, and everything is my fault.

Over the next few days, a realization swept over me. That dog could have been me, except I didn’t die. I was neglected in my family. I felt abandoned by my husband. I just didn’t die, although I could have.

Memories came back to me. I remember my mother’s crazy boyfriend that thought instilling fear into a child would get me to behave, and why was I left there? My grandfather that took his anger out on me and nobody else in the family. Why didn’t anyone stand up for me? I remembered the time I was supposed to bring a homemade baked good to 5th grade, but by Sunday night, my mom decided to buy something packaged from the store. “Choose which one you want,” she said. I felt so embarrassed, humiliated at the thought of letting my class down. I remembered the time I was scared standing alone in a strange neighborhood waiting for her to pick me up after a theatre performance. She was an hour late. She mixed up the time. I remember when she forgot to pick me up, and I walked almost a mile home, exhausted after a dance class. She was talking on the phone on the balcony and waved at me. I remembered that there was no apology then, and there was no apology now. These seemingly insignificant moments add up to something critical. There was no apology for anything, but back then, I needed her, so I kept the relationship going. After Melfi died, I realized I didn’t need her anymore.

I haven’t spoken to my mother since. I don’t have anything to say, and apparently, neither does she. My 92 year old grandfather recently had an operation on his prostate. I got updates from my stepfather. My mother sent me nothing. Melfi’s death brought out what was already there- a dark cloud between me and my family. I just hadn’t seen it. Sometimes it takes a death to wake up from an illusion in your life.

Melfi’s picture is on my phone’s homepage. At first, I couldn’t look at him without crying. I didn’t want to forget his facial expressions. I didn’t want to forget the way my daughter played hide and seek with him. My daughter would hide around the house, like behind a curtain, and Melfi had to find her. I didn’t want to forget the way we danced together to our made up tune- Peanut butter jelly butt, peanut butter almond butt, peanut butter bazooka butt… We made up words as we went along. My daughter and I picked up his front paws and danced with him. Sometimes I looked at him and said, “chicken.” “Chicken” was an interesting word when I said it to Melfi. I don’t know if he knew what I was saying, but eventually, when I said “chicken,” he would bark back, like we were talking to each other. I don’t know if he liked me talking to him like that, but he tolerated it. That’s what I loved about him, we could have fun with him and he tolerated us. I think toward the end, he knew that we were laughing at his expense. Melfi, I’m sorry. I just want to hug you again.

When he yawned, and he made this ayyy sound. He liked to sleep under the covers. 60 pounds of him would burrow himself under the covers. He was my heating pad at night. At some point, he would run out of air and situate himself above the covers. Then, he would go back under the covers. Back and forth he would go all night. It used to annoy me, but after he was gone, I missed it.

We got a cat, Theo. I never had a male cat, but that’s who was available. Oddly enough, he goes under the covers to sleep. I never had a cat do that. He reminds me of Melfi in that way. He’s vocal. When I talk to him, he meows back. And he has a voracious appetite. This cat eats for two cats.

But Melfi, my dear beautiful dog. I will always love you. The last picture of him, the day before he died, was of him sleeping, his face pointed toward the window and illuminated by the sunlight. I never want to forget you, Melfi. When I go, I want to see you again, play with you again, hug you and burrow my head into yours again. Melfi, I love you.