The first funeral I ever went to was for a dog. His name was Saskatoon, but we called him Sassy.
He wasn’t my dog. I didn’t raise him. I didn’t feed him or walk him in the rain. I knew him for a few months, and once a week at flyball practice I got to run him, whenever his mom, Marissa, let me. So when I heard he died, I told myself I didn’t really have the right to be this sad. Then I went to the funeral.
The funeral was at the field where we practice. Anyone who has been to flyball knows how loud it gets. We parked in our usual spot, at almost the same time we pull in every week, and I got out of the car ready for the noise. Dogs barking. Sassy tearing around with his friends, or screaming from his crate because it still wasn’t his turn. Instead, nothing. Not one bark, not from him, not from anyone. And in the middle of all that quiet, a casket with his name on it.
That’s when it hit me. I would never hold him again. Never carry him, never fall on my face trying to catch him. I would never again hear Marissa scream “SASSY!” so high that every head on the field turned.
Some of his friends had already put their paw prints on the casket, and the dogs who came that night added theirs, one by one. We hadn’t brought Cookie, our dog, so I drew one for her. It was really ugly. She would have done a better job.
Then Marissa pulled in with Sassy in the car. She was smiling. I think if she had stopped smiling, or stopped moving, or stopped joking for even a second, she would have fallen apart. She carried him over to us in her arms. He was in his bed, under a blanket, stretched out the way he always was when he ran. Like he was still on his way somewhere fast.
Seana read the eulogy Mikenzi wrote. Then we said goodbye, and the dogs did too, in their own way. Kasia walked right up to the casket, put two little paws on the edge, and took a long look. Just to be sure. Lynn spent the whole service herding everybody, because somebody had to. Banff and Jasper, who have never read a room in their lives, stole Sassy’s favorite ball right out from under him. We cried, then we laughed, then we did both at the same time. That was pretty much the rest of the night.
The first time I ever held Sassy at the start line and let him go was at a tournament. Did I mess it up? I did. Did he run like crazy anyway? Of course he did. That first run is what made me fall in love with dog sports.
After that, every week at practice, Marissa would ask who wanted to run Sassy, and every week my hand shot up. Me, me, me, me. I was the teacher’s pet in the front row who can’t stand being left out, and I wasn’t even embarrassed. If you’ve ever run Sassy, you get it. The adrenaline. All that power pulling on your arms. And mostly, how much fun it was!
One day he came back from a run and hit the tug toy so hard I went down. My glasses flew off and rolled away. I sat up and looked around for him. He was trotting circles around me with the toy in his mouth, and the look on his face said it all: Come on, girl. Don’t be a weak-ass bitch. Let’s have fun. I laughed so hard I couldn’t get up. I hadn’t had that much fun in years.
Sassy was the first dog who ever came into our house. Cookie is reactive, so when he walked in, she barked like the house was on fire. Sassy just stayed calm, and after a while, so did she. He was her first friend.
He was the first dog I ever ran. He was also the first dog Cookie ever ran next to without losing it. If you’ve ever had a reactive dog, you know what a big deal that is.
She may never pass another dog at a tournament. But one night at practice, she passed Sassy. I cried, and not because I was sad.
He won over my husband, too. When we went to frisbee workshops, he would come along, just to play with Sassy for a while. We still have one of those frisbees. It’s covered in Sassy’s teeth marks, with a few holes where he bit right through. Every time I see it, I smile. Then I miss him all over again.
I keep asking myself why this hit me so hard. He wasn’t my dog. I knew him for a few months. I think it’s because of who I got to be around him. He made everyone comfortable, dogs and people, and then he made it okay to have fun. I’m a boring adult. I don’t usually wave my hand in the air yelling “me, me, me.” I don’t fall on my back in public and lie there laughing. I don’t scream anyone’s name at the top of my lungs. Around Sassy, all of that was normal. A dog doesn’t care if you look stupid. He just wants to know if you’re playing.
And he gave all of that to people who hadn’t earned it. I always thought you earned a dog over years. You raise him, you feed him, you walk him in the rain. Sassy didn’t care about any of that. I showed up once a week and asked to run him, and he gave me everything he had, every single time, same as he gave Marissa. A few months was enough for him. Turns out it was enough for me too.
Marissa didn’t have to share him. She could have kept him to herself. Instead, week after week, she handed him to me, hand in the air, no idea what I was doing. I just hope she knows what Sassy gave the rest of us.
Every dog person knows the deal. They don’t live long enough. We just try not to think about it. Most of us at least get to tell ourselves we have ten, twelve, fifteen years. Sassy got two. I don’t think he ever worried about that. He just ran and had fun. Every time, as hard as he could.
Then it was time to bury him, and Sassy made us laugh one more time. The casket didn’t fit in the hole. There was nothing to do but climb on top of it and jump, a bunch of grown adults bouncing on a coffin, until it finally went in. We were laughing with tears running down our faces. Even at the end, he wouldn’t let us be serious for long.
We took turns covering him and saying goodbye. The dogs helped. Piper was thrilled to be allowed to dig, and went at it with total commitment, in a spot that had nothing to do with anything. Banff actually did real work and helped bury him properly. Good boy. As always.
The sun was going down over the field the whole time. I film our practices every week, and half the reason is that sunset. This one was his.
I’m not going to write about how Sassy died. That’s not my story to tell. But at some point that night, Mikenzi said what we were all thinking: “Fuck that stick.”
Run free, Sassy boy. Keep flaunting those berries.
