My neighbor is older – maybe in his 70s. He gets around fine. He still mows his lawn. His white t-shirt hangs off of hunched and thin shoulders. His hair is white and he usually wears a ball cap. His name is Tom, but it could just as well be John or Dave or Hank. He has two dogs – one is old and sick, the other runs along the fence barking at me every time I walk by. At least twice a day, Tom carries his old and sick dog, a black cocker spaniel that for some reason I assume is also blind, out to his back yard where the dog can do her business. At least twice a day, he carries her back in.
It’s sunny out today and starting to warm up. I wore a heavy peacoat in the morning, but didn’t need it by the time I drove home. I pulled down the gravel drive behind my other neighbor. She waved in the direction of Tom’s house as we drove by. I didn’t see Tom outside and thought she might be waving at me. I waved back. When I turned the car off and opened my door, I thought I heard a cry for help. Tom’s older and I thought maybe he had fallen. I listened intently. It was a cry. It was Tom. My heart quickened and I listened trying to assess the situation. I was expecting another cry, a wail, a pleading. I couldn’t make out the next few words. “I only left you for a bit…” or something like that. The next cry was a clear sobbing, “I loved you so much.” Tom emerged from the back door of his garage. I knew what was swaddled in the blue blanket. My heart sank. I took a half-step away from my car and wasn’t sure which direction to turn. Console Tom? Go inside? He carried the dog’s body out to the yard, crying. I went inside.
I didn’t want to let my dog out. I felt bad for what Tom lost and how little I sometimes appreciate my pooch. I wanted to leave Tom alone. I didn’t want to break the peace and sorrow of the moment. I didn’t want his dog and my dog to start barking at each other. I also wanted tell him I’m sorry and offer to help with whatever he needed help with. I wanted to call his daughter (I don’t know her number) and make sure someone was checking in on him. I felt sick. I remembered the night I held my cat, Paris, as she died. I remember the other night I put my cat, Nick, down. And the day we put another cat, Murphy, down. I remember crying and saying similar things – I was sorry. They were all dying and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’ve been Tom. I think we’ve all been Tom.
I watched from the picture window that gives an angled view Tom’s yard. His bony shoulders and arms swayed with determination as he dug and filled a small wagon with dirt. He strained to pull it through the grass. He seemed angry. He worked quickly and with a purpose. I kept thinking I should say something. I kept thinking I don’t want to interrupt. Nobody wants to be seen in such a moment of pain. I should offer to help. I went back and forth between the top of the stairs and the window. I walked out the door with a slight lump in my throat. I walked solemnly up the gravel road and over to the fence near where Tom was shoveling. The dog that usually barks at me came up to the fence for pets. I didn’t have any words other than to say I saw that his dog passed. I felt bad because I didn’t even know the dog’s name. I asked him if he needed anything, was there anything I could do. Tears streamed down his face. There wasn’t. I said I was sorry again and walked away.
Tom lives alone. In his yard, under the shade of a big tree there’s a small rise that could barely be called a hill. On this low mound there are a few engraved marble markers for some of Tom’s other pets, and now a fresh grave already covered. As I walked back to the house, I thought about how tangible Tom’s agony was. Those words echoed and haunted me, “I loved you so much.” I wondered what details he’ll remember of the day… that it was late afternoon, that the sun felt warm, or the way the shadows stretched long in the yard? Would he remember the angle of the mower in front of the shed, or how he had to bend down to scoop up the lifeless blue blanket in the garage? I wondered how many times Tom has felt that type of heartache in his long life. I wondered how his heart doesn’t just give out, how all of our hearts don’t just give out after a while.