Jerry’s childhood home sold yesterday, after a long and frustrating selling process. Jerry posted about it on his site this morning.
When Jerry and I were early married, we went over there one time and I remember he stood in the backyard — in the southwest corner under the trees — and got all misty-eyed. That’s where Sheila and Tippy are buried, the beloved family dogs.
I hadn’t thought of that as the process to sell the house had been going on.
… How many pets are buried in my parents’ back yard? There’s Fidget, the legendary black cat that will always be my Dad’s favorite — and fodder for campfire stories for the rest of time… Viki, our first Sheltie, who had violent epileptic seizures until we finally relieved her of them. Caruso, the singing cat, who was attacked in our front yard while we were on vacation. Midnight and Twinkie, my guinea pigs. Countless hamsters belonging to my brothers (including Jiffy, who apparently lived for 4 years or something ridiculous). Turbo, a gray tabby who I picked out when I was almost 15, who lived until I was 30. And Charlie, the legendary Sheltie I trained when I was in high school, who died of kidney failure when I was pregnant with Helen.
Jerry has said before that outliving our pets is the price we pay for the joy that they bring to our lives.
One day, I’ll be in my parents’ back yard, walking the south edge of it, getting wistful. I hadn’t considered before the memories tied to the outside of the house.
Sheila was as sweet an animal as anyone could ask. She slept with me most every night. Mom and I eventually took her in and held her while she was put down.
Tippy was my sister’s dog. I think he was humilated at being given such a stupid name and was thus a jerk for almost all of his life. He softened a little (only a little) in old age, and died while Mom took a shower one day.
There’s nothing left of them in the backyard, really. Just in our memories.