His Name was Sam

In every person’s life there are moments, people, and experiences that define who they are and who they become. For better or worse these experiences change us. Sometimes the change is easy, other times it is painfully difficult. The one constant of these life experiences are the marks they leave upon our consciousness. I don’t know if the following memory is one of these experiences, but it is something I remember.

In my younger years, early teens perhaps, my family had a golden retriever. He wasn’t the first family dog, but Sam was the first dog that didn’t scare me with an angry bark. I can still picture him laying lazily on the couch in the family room. His hair has as much red as gold and he is skinny, but in a healthy way. His long nose is noticeably narrow and his brown eyes seem to be perpetually making “puppy” eyes at us. Although he was allowed in the house, it was against our parent’s rules to let him into our beds with us. We snuck him in anyways. Many nights were peacefully spent with Sam’s body heat radiating between our snuggled bodies.

Although Sam was the family dog my relationship with him was special because I was the one who was responsible for him. I fed him his meals and as part of my 4-H experience took him to dog obedience courses. It took a lot of time and effort for someone my age, but eventually we both learned. That summer, at the local 4-H fair, our hard work paid off. We won both competitions and received two small trophies. I still have those trophies. These are happy memories, but it is another experience that I recall more vividly. I do not remember the passing of time between that summer and the following events, but I still retained my youthful innocence.

Although Sam was a wonderful dog, whom we all loved, he had a bad habit. Whenever he got outside without a leash, he became so playful that catching him was difficult. He would run around excitedly, come within twenty feet of you, and arch his back with his front half low to the ground; a signal that he wanted to play. Sam’s actions were both gleefully amusing and frustrating. Fortunately we lived in the country and there was little danger in his playful antics.

On this particular day, Sam escaped from the house, and quickly disappeared from view. I followed him along the dusty country road, both frustrated and worried when he did not obey my commands to return. I continued down the road calling his name. After a quarter of a mile I neared the end of the road, which came to a ‘T’ at a busy paved road with speeding cars. It was from this direction that Sam came running towards me. As he had done so many times before he arched his back, bringing his front half low to the ground. My furry friend wanted to play. I wanted him to obey and come with me. Then Sam got up and energetically bounded away. A moment later car tires screeched and I heard a horrible yelp. I knew. I was young and innocent, but I knew.

My mind is unable to recollect all that transpired in the next few hours, but I do remember running to get my Dad. I remember him carrying Sam to the family’s car. Maybe I saw the pain in Sam’s eyes. I was probably crying. Next thing I recall I’m at my Grandma’s vacant house along with some other family members helping to clean it out. The phone on the wall rings. I know who it is and what the call is about. Dad answers it and the conversation is brief. He walks over and tells me that the vet has to put Sam to sleep, but I know he will never awake from this sleep. Maybe I cried, but reflecting back upon this moment, I seem to recall a stoicism unusual for a boy my age. Maybe it was because I already knew, or perhaps I dealt with the loss in some other way.

The next moment in my memory is Sam’s burial. Dad has dug a hole in front of our barn, down the hill from our house. The family has gathered around; my parents, two older sisters, two younger brothers, and myself. Dad places Sam in the hole and says something about him being a good dog. We all cry and he fills in the grave. Over the next few days or weeks I build a cross to mark Sam’s grave. With Dad’s help I cut and stain the wood. Alone, I take a hammer and place the cross atop his resting place. I don’t know if this tragic experience changed or defined me somehow, but many years later I still remember it.

I’ve since grown up and moved to Colorado, to the mountains I love, but every time I go back to Michigan I see his grave and the cross that marks it. If it’s summer I try and tidy up the place, tearing out the grass and spreading some mulch. I also still have his collar. It rests in a drawer along with a few other prized memories. The bright blue is somewhat faded and the identification tag is scratched. Ever so often I take it out and look at it; remembering the beloved dog of my childhood. His name is Sam.
Today is his birthday.