FIRST, you have to understand that this story is a sad story but I can see the humor in it. You have to understand that I cried for most of the day, but that I laughed when I regaled my friends with the episode I'm about to describe. You have to understand a lot of things about the dog involved, how I felt about him and about how I came to have him in my life.

Let's start with Wednesday night at 10:00. I let my 13-year old dog Jackson out for his nightly pee. He does not return. He has done this before, maybe 3 times. Each time he has been on my doorstep the following morning. We had a thunderstorm during the night, but still he did not return. He was not on my doorstep yesterday morning so I went to work, figuring he had found safe haven during the night. I looked for his body on the hardtop on my way to work and did not find it. At 10:00, at work I got a call from State Trooper Prichitt saying that my dog Jackson had been hit by a car and was injured, couldn't walk, and that he was being left at my house. "How did you find me?," I asked. "I've been tracking you down for a while." I called the vet, told them to expect an emergency visit from me. Vet is an hour from my house, house is 45 min. from work. I rushed home. Jackson was lying on the grass, took his last gasp of air as I knelt down next to him. He was already dead. Next to him was a shirt, Moore Construction Company on the left front, Mike on the right. So it was Mike who hit him, then covered him with his shirt. Jackson died of internal injuries, his belly was swollen and his gums were white.

I later discovered he had been hit at 7:50, so it took him a while to die, the poor old man. Several people got involved in this drama, my voice mail was full of messages, neighbors wanting me to know my dog had been hit. Mostly people I vaguely know or don't know at all. He had a tag on his collar with my name & phone number. I like it a lot that so many people cared. One woman called in the afternoon to see how my dog was.

OK, now the John Candy movie begins. I'm crying, feeling guilty, feeling sorry for Jackson, feeling sad. I call my 91-year-old friend Ken because I need help disposing of a 70-pound dog body. Ken has always told me that he will help me bury a dog body, he has a place in the woods that's a burial spot for dogs. I leave a message and an hour later he calls me back. Meanwhile Jackson lies in the sun, under a blanket. I let Tess outside. She runs up to him, wagging her tail madly, imploring him to get up an play with her.

Ken comes over and the only way he considers handling the body of an animal is to dangle it by its front and hind legs, like a dead deer. I can't stand this, but what can I do? At least I take the front, so I can cradle Jackson's head in my arms. With a 1-2-3 HEAVE HO we put him in the back of the truck and drive him to Ken's, where we transfer him to the small wooden trailer behind Ken's 1955 Ford tractor for transport into the woods. I sit on a cinder block in the middle of the trailer, next to the body. I cry a lot. It's a bumpy ride but the woods are spectacular, serene and beautiful. We get to the spot Ken knows is the right one. We start walking into the woods on mossy covered ground and he says "We're looking for a monument." I know better than to ask what kind of monument or how far into the woods we should go. I finally spot a red stone, shaped just like a headstone, blank but unmistakable. "Found it!" He explains that a camper, many years ago, had her dog die while she was there, and she wanted it buried in Hawkeye so he buried it there. This completely destroys my vision of a burial plot for beloved pets but it's sure too late to turn back now. "We'll put Good Old Jackson right next to her dog, right here," he says, tapping the moss with his boot.

The spot he's picked is about 75 feet from where the tractor is parked on the dirt path/road. I know we can't carry the body that far. He reads my mind. "I'll just skid him in here." Oh God I don't think I can stand that. We lower the body to the ground, he ties a rope around Jackson's rear legs and starts dragging the body. Drag, pause, drag, pause. I cry. We reach the spot and start to dig. It's 85 degrees and the mosquitoes are hungry. We sweat and dig. He's very methodical, I'm eager to finish this project. I can't stand it. Jackson is lying on the ground nearby.

Finally we have a hole big enough--about 2 1/2 feet deep, 3 feet long and a foot wide. We put the blanket I've brought in the hole and lower the dog onto it, adjust his position so he fits. Fine, the hole is deep enough. Only one problem: rigor mortis has set in and his front legs are completely stiff. Hind legs bend just fine but his front legs are sticking straight up, out of the hole about 3 inches (I said this was like a John Candy movie). Push them down, they pop up. "Um, Ken...we have a problem." I can read his mind--if I weren't there he could break the legs and tuck them in nicely. I push, push, push the legs down, hold them down long enough to make them stay, tuck them under the edge of the hole and finally, success! He fits! We cover him with the edges of the blanket, then a garbage bag, and finally the dirt and moss we saved when we started digging.

Ken instructs me to find a perfect, flat, square stone within the next while, and to write something nice on it. "We'll come back up and put it right here," he says, putting a birch log in the exact spot. "What're you going to paint on the stone?," he asks. God only knows. Throughout this whole afternoon he's been saying things like, "Good Old Jackson, your last ride in a motor vehicle." "Good Old Jackson, your final resting place." "If there's a heaven for you I'll bet you're there now, Old Jackson." Each time he says these things I cry some more.

At last we leave, me riding in the small trailer, enjoying the ride through the woods even as I cry for the dog, for my brother, for death. We ride through a blueberry patch full of ripe berries, we turn around over a lichen-covered rock, we ride through the meadow with the wonderful view of the end of the lake and the mountain. Finally we get to his house, put away the tools, unhook the trailer and go inside. "I think we deserve a touch of the creature, don't you?," he says. But first we each have a tall glass of cold, delicious water.

When I go home there is no big yellow dog barking a sloppy bark at my arrival.