Memory Monday: Letting Sleeping Dogs Die...I mean Lie

This post is a little twisted. Okay, a lot twisted.

You've been warned.

I was reminded recently of a memory faded by time yet still a bit horrifying. As I recall this memory, I must admit some of the details may be a bit sketchy. I guess it's probably better for the guilty parties that I don't remember much and have no contact with any of the people I knew back then.

(Hazy image)
Logan, Utah: 1984 or 85ish. Dad was in grad-school for his Master's and we lived a small neighborhood that provided us with many adventures. These of course, were not limited to The Flash headbutting an on-coming car and Captain America and I in a constant struggle to permanently maim each other. But more on those later...

His name was Travis. Or Tyler. Or maybe even Trevor. He was a bit rough around the edges, to put it mildly. He was in my kindergarten and first grade classes at Ellis School. I knew him better than many of my classmates because his grandma lived right around the corner from our home and he played there often.

One particular afternoon during recess, he gathered a group together to invite us over to his grandmother's house for milk and cookies. What's more is that his grandmother wasn't home which meant: UNLIMITED COOKIE ACCESS! He also mentioned that his grandma buried several dead pets in the backyard and for the main event, he'd show us a few.

I'm not sure which lured me over to his house that afternoon; the promise of enough cookies to spoil my dinner or the morbid curiosity of exhumed dead things. It's hard to say. One thing is clear. I went there on my own 6 year old accord.

When I arrived, there were already several children gathered, following my classmate who was carrying a shovel twice his size, which he had difficulty lugging around. After the promised cookies, he didn't spend much time with dilly-dally and set straight to work. To plunge the shovel into the earth, the most likely seriously disturbed kid had to throw his whole body weight into the shovel.

First was a dog. I think I blocked the image from my mind. All I remember is fur.

Then came a cat. Poor cat. It gives new meaning to 'rest in piece...s.'

I think there may have been a gerbil in there somewhere.

It was classic scene, not unlike one from a movie like 'The Sandlot": a gaggle of horrified kids circling around a particularly heinous sight, gasping with a whole lot of 'eeeewwwws!', 'Augghhh!' and 'GROSS'!

There were a couple more before he got too tired to dig anymore. Which, unfortunately for his grandma, meant he was too tired to returned the exhumed pets to their final resting places.

Having recently watched the movie, 'Where The Red Fern Goes' at the USU theater and crying uncontrollably by the end, I should have considered that the writer of such a tale, as well as that unsuspecting grandmother, never expected anyone to dig up what was under that red fern, that new sapling tree and that delicate rose bush.

What's even worse is now, as a grown-up, I CAN NOT imagine what that grandma saw when she came home from her Bridge party or Bingo night. It probably looked like a scene from "Milo and Otis: When Zombie Dogs Attack!".

I wonder what she discovered first, her empty cookie jar or her still very dead furry friends coming back for a visit?

One thing's for sure. Never underestimate an underaged mortician with a shovel.