Ike was a good hunting dog to which all future family hunting dogs would eventually be compared to.
His daily routine: jump the fence, roam around the neighborhood, return home. One time he returned home with an almost perfectly cooked rack of BBQ’d ribs that we assume he got off of some one’s grill. Later that month, an irrate woman called the house and screamed “YOUR DOG IS RAPING MY PUPPY!!” at my startled mother on the phone. No-one knew he had yet jumped the fence that day. My Mom had to go collect him and tell that woman she was sorry our dog raped her puppy.
He lived a good, full life and died upstairs in my Mom’s bedroom during a thunderstorm. By the time I discovered him, rigamortis had set in. Getting him downstairs was like carrying a coffee table upside down. Our pet graveyard was in a corner of the backyard, underneath an Apple tree.
I had to dig a ridiculously large square hole to bury him. My Mom and sister attended the funeral despite the pounding rain. They were too distraught to help me get him in the hole, so they just stood there and cried while they watched me wrestle with his body, making loud yelps whenever I had to manipulate him, as if he could somehow still feel pain.
Footnote: My sister’s youngest child is named Isaac. His nickname is Ike and the family lovingly calls him “Ikey bubby” which is how my sister referred to Ike the dog, when she was his age.
