The Strange And Wonderful Burial Of Chester's Dog

Once more he was coming to Chester's rescue. And it had already been a winter full of rescues.

The wind had swept Lake Michigan with unrestrained fury during the month of January, bringing with it what seemed to be the snow of a new Ice Age. The El trains had run only sporadically during the past week, and pedestrians, perhaps in a subconscious desire to match the weather's barbarism with their own, snapped off car aerials as souvenirs--the aerials frequently being the only clue to the whereabouts of parked cars along the side streets. Later, in spring, the car tops would melt through the packed snow in flashes of rectangular color. But the thaw would not touch the Big Snow for a while yet.

Fortunately Gregory had been able to shovel his blue Chevy out this morning after receiving Chester's call in the early hours of the dawn.

"Hello, Gregory Knudsen speaking."

"Pastor Gregory, is that you?"

"Yes--well, hello, Chester. What can I do for you?" he said, already mentally preparing to leave the warm safety of his bed.

Chester needed fuel oil for his furnace. If he did not get some more soon, he would freeze, he said. Trapped by his age and the bitter cold and the drifts piled against his deteriorating, shingled house, he called the man who had befriended him three short years before. The occasion then had been the funeral of Chester's only sister. Pastor Gregory, new in Lincoln Block, had acquiesced over the phone to Kerdigan the undertaker's plea to conduct this service. Chester, Kerdigan, and a distant Detroit cousin of the deceased attended. Ever since, Pastor Gregory had remained one of Chester's few surviving links with the world.

It was not the first time this winter that Chester's hoarse voice had breathed over the phone for help. Gregory was able to predict with fair accuracy when the oil ran out, and if there was no call, he usually stopped by for a neighborly visit to chat about the Cubs' prospects next season, or the horrible weather. At other times Chester would be in one of his particularly vituperative moods. Then Gregory would silently absorb the abuse of an old man scornful of the institution Gregory represented: the church. The pastor wanted to respond with equanimity, and would have if it weren't for the fact that most of Chester's accusations were true.

"A friend of mine told me once what churches are for," Chester said. "A church is kind of like a college fraternity. You know, a place where young men go to live for a common purpose."

"What purpose?" Gregory broke in. He hoped to ask the old man himself what his purpose for living was.

Instead, Chester had smiled back and dryly answered in dictionary definition tones: "The purpose of a fraternity? Why, of course: to get more young men to live for a common purpose."

Gregory said nothing. Chester was wary of convert headhunters. When he vehemently exclaimed one day that God was being advertised like General. Motors and he, Chester, would have none of it, Gregory again nodded in silent, humble assent. Afterwards, like usual, he drove to pick up Chester's weekly supply of heating oil. Then they talked about the Cubs' renewed hopes for a pennant, and Gregory left, knowing Chester would continue to prod him, waiting expectantly for the preacher to hurl down calvinistic cries of damnation upon a rebellious, cranky old son of Lucifer.

The thought came again this morning, as Gregory drove through the narrow, recently bulldozed streets, that he was being used. It was a troublesome thought, one that always left him unsure. In his supposedly Christlike mission to this man, had he renounced all authority by following the way of ineffectual love? Could no shock tactics jolt Chester out of his self-imposed, self-centered squalor? Maybe this warm blanket of mercy was lulling Chester into a false sense of security. Maybe a few daggers of judgment thrust strategically through the blanket would bring Chester to a serious--if despairing--evaluation of his life. But, meekly and mildly, "as a little child," Gregory repeatedly came to Chester's aid. The meek and mild. Gregory was plagued with doubt. He wondered if he was wasting time.

After he had picked up the fuel oil, loading the heavy cans into the trunk, he drove to Chester's. He gunned the Chevy over the last ridges of dirty snow parallel to the curb and parked. He opened the trunk, removed the two two-gallon cans, closed the trunk, and waded carefully through the deep drifts to the door. He lifted the rusty knocker, letting it drop twice.

Chester took a while answering. Then the locks slid back, and he opened the door a crack. He looked worse than ever. Huge black circles like tires rimmed his eyes. They reminded Gregory of the worn-out circus elephants he had seen once when he was a child, elephants whose eyes were buried in blackened grey skin, eyes beaten by the recurrent sight of a sawdust ring. Chester wore striped overalls over a dirty blue flannel shirt. The heels of his leather shoes were tromped down like bedroom slippers. He had not shaved. His beard clung to his thin yet double chin like a faint scum.

"Good morning, pastor," Chester said, swinging the door open all the way. The draft rustled newspapers lying on the floor next to the couch.

"Good morning, Chester," Gregory said. He entered holding a two-gallon can in each gloved hand. Chester quickly closed the door, hobbling slightly. Gregory fought down a wave of despair. Or maybe it was nausea, because of the smell of the house. Something was more wrong than usual. What was he doing here? Why did he keep coming back? This man who was ineligible for welfare because he owned this corner house on good property, now getting an income of next to nothing, and refusing to sell the house because he was "waiting for a rainy day." Yes, thought Gregory, this is how it must be: dying men in a blizzard, in a winter of eternal snows, talk of waiting till a rainy day. The illusions of the dying men were the most pitiful.

"Let's fill the furnace tank," Gregory said.

They went to the kitchen, and when the job was done they sat at the table. Chester had not run out of fuel, but had turned down the heat to conserve the diminishing supply. Gregory kept his coat on.

"What have you had to eat lately, Chester?" Gregory saw the remnants of a pound cake on the cupboard. A half-consumed package of vanilla cookies lay nearby, surrounded by torn cellophane and crumbs.

Chester said, "I'm getting along fine." Gregory decided he would call the Salvation Army to bring some groceries by again. He had done so himself more times than he could remember.

"Spring's not far off. Then I'll be able to get out of the house again."

"Spring is three months away. The sooner you sell this place the sooner you'll be able to get the adequate help you need."

Chester put a pot of water on the stove to boil for tea.

"And what do I do when this is sold?" Chester asked. "Go into some damn state institution so I'm not a burden to you, is that it?"

Gregory was on the defensive again. No, he did not want to rid himself of Chester's problems. He was simply being realistic. Chester would die this winter if he did not get better care. Gregory had tried to talk the old man into moving into the Salvation Army shelter. Chester refused. So Gregory did for Chester what he could, on Chester's terms. The dignity of the individual is more important than physical, material necessities. Where had he heard that? Absurd. He knew with sudden conviction that subjecting himself to Chester's stubborn whims of decay and despair was futile. What was needed was General Patton and the City of Chicago sanitation crew. But, on whose authority? Against Chester's will? We must make decisions for the weak and ignorant who cannot make decisions themselves.

But, on whose authority?

"No, I'm not trying to get rid of you," Gregory said. "I just can't do everything that needs to be done. You barely survive."

"Ah, the martyr missionary. I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble." Chester poured hot water into two mugs and dug a teabag out of an old cannister. As he sat down at the table, Gregory saw his swollen ankles. Chester swished the teabag around in one cup, then swung the bag over, dripping, above the other. "You want to be a martyr, don't you?"

Gregory's exasperation prevented him from responding to the taunt.

They sipped scalding tea in the icy, linoleum-floored kitchen.

"Where's Watson?" Gregory asked. Watson was another one of Chester's surviving links with the world, a 12-year-old dog, half bulldog, the cranky counterpart of Chester himself.

Chester's tone changed to one of resignation. "That's the other reason I called you this morning. Can you bury him for me? He's dead."

"What happened?"

"He caught a cold. When they're that old, something like that can do them in." Gregory refrained from saying what he was thinking. Chester spoke as a physician. "He died, about two last night."

"Where is he?"

"In my bedroom. Can you take care of him for me?"

"I think so," Gregory said. There was a moment of silence. Burying Chester's dog. Last rites. All the years in seminary, the appointments to conference boards, the long counseling sessions, the searching out of the Scriptures, the immersion, body and soul, in the life of the church--all of this had now led to the supreme moment of his calling: the burial of Chester's dog. "Yes, I'll take care of Watson for you, Chester." Gregory did not ask why Chester had not called the city dog pound or city sanitation, or even bothered to leave the dog with the garbage. No, that last possibility would have been unthinkable. Chester's eyes were like Gregory had seen them at the funeral three years ago. There was gratitude. The pastor would dispense with the unpleasant but sacrosanct task of putting the dead to rest.

But what would he do with the carcass of a 50-pound canine? For now, at least, put it outside on the back porch.

"Chester, I'll take him outside and pick him up later, okay? I'm not sure where I'd take him right now--let me think about it." Gregory was in the bedroom, surveying the scene of morbidity. Beside Chester's unmade oak bed the dog lay on a pile of towels, on its side, paws outstretched toward the bed. Its mouth was slightly ajar and a thin rope of saliva hung suspended between the upper and lower jaw. The room smelled strongly of dog.

"Sure, pastor, that's fine. Just take him out on the back porch for now."

Gregory picked up the dog by its front and back paws, surprised by its weight. It had grown quite stiff. He walked to

the back kitchen door with it and waited while Chester caught up and opened the door. Gregory stepped out on the porch and deposited Watson's carcass on the wide boards with a thump. Chester watched from the doorway.

Gregory washed his hands off under the kitchen tap and waved them dry. "Chester, I'll be by this afternoon or tomorrow. I'm sorry about Watson."

"Don't be sorry. That's the way things are."

Later that afternoon Gregory drove again to Chester's. In the back seat of the Chevy was a box of groceries: granola, five cans of Campbell's tomato and chicken soup, some canned vegetables, a loaf of rye bread, longhorn cheese, eggs, pork and beans, some apples and oranges, a gallon of milk. Gregory wore his gloves because the car heater was working on a volunteer basis again.

Almost miraculously, it seemed, the sun had broken through the low, thick layer of clouds. The sun had not been out for two weeks, so this raised Gregory's spirits. He clipped his sunglasses to the black frames of his glasses and flipped the polaroids down to cut the bright glare of the rays beaming off the snow.

He had thought about what to do with Chester's dog. The simplest thing, he decided, would be to throw the dog in the trunk, drive home, and stuff the carcass into his garbage can. After pondering whether or not this meant dishonesty to Chester's request, he grimly told himself that it did not. He did not have all day to spend on dog burials. Servanthood meant allotting one's time, among other things. One could push this whole ordeal of Chester's dead entirely too far. Enough was enough. Let the dead bury the dead.

When Gregory arrived, neither he nor Chester said anything about the food. Gregory left the box on the kitchen cupboard and said goodbye to Chester on the back porch, picking up the dog, again, by its stiff paws. He lugged its bulk along the partly shoveled path leading to the front of the house. He wished he had shoveled more.

He opened the trunk and put the dog inside. Its frozen carcass refused to lie flat because it did not fit: The outstretched head balanced on the top of the spare tire, and the rest of the body slanted like a plank to the bottom of the trunk.

Unfortunately, when Gregory arrived at the storefront church below the upstairs apartment that was home, the dog did not fit into the garbage can, either. He tried inserting it head first, but the front legs protruding at a 90-degree angle to the body halted Watson's downward plunge with an abrupt, metallic bang. The only other way would be tail first. Again, the legs made any progress impossible. Gregory resorted to force. Maybe the legs would snap. A drunk customer from Sam's bar at the corner walked by, staring wide-eyed at the spectacle. Gregory, exasperated, glared back. The legs did not give. He dropped the dog in the snow. It was becoming plain that Watson had not been created for this end. And it would not do to leave the dog out in the open. There would be no guarantee of it being picked up.

Gregory was angry now. He picked up the dog for what seemed the thousandth time, and put it back in the trunk. He vowed this would be the day's final trip through Chicago's treacherous winter streets.

The sun was still alive over the bare trees at the park by Lake Michigan. Bulldozers had cleared the main parking lot, piling the snow in gigantic banks at one end. The lake itself lay dazzling and frozen, the ice warped into fantastic shapes by wind and water at the shore's edge. The bright, bleak surface trailing away to the horizon gripped Gregory with its white beauty. He looked carefully around the lot; it was empty, and he got out of the car with a burst of vigor. The conclusion of this day's saga was near. He eyed the snowbank nearest him, shaded his eyes with one gloved hand, and judged the distance to the top. Satisfied, he pulled the dog from the back end of the car. He peeled away his overcoat, and laid it carefully on the snow that was printed with the big bulldozer's tracks. He pulled up slightly on the sleeves of his heavy brown sweater. This allowed his arms maximum movement. Then he picked up the dog one last time, hands to paws, and, whirling around once, twice, he let go at the height of his revolution and watched the stiff dog corpse sail with a slow, spinning frisbee motion over the snowbank and out of sight. He smiled. The pale sun hung like a lone pea in the dusk, burning through the branches of the trees. It was rapidly growing colder. "Rest in peace," Gregory said, addressing the white face of the snowbank.

There was the sound of a racing engine and a white-and-black patrol car roared through the parking lot entrance, coming to a halt beside Gregory's Chevy. Gregory was putting on his overcoat.

"What are you doing, mister?" The policeman's voice sounded hollow in the empty stillness of the parking lot.

"I was disposing of a dog, sir."

The cop stalked slowly over to Gregory's vicinity next to the big snowbank. His eyes bulged like marbles pasted to cardboard from under the shiny visored helmet. His cheeks were a thick, healthy pink.

"This isn't the place for that. Against city ordinance to throw dead dogs out here. Hell, do you think this is a garbage dump?"

"No, I--"

"Should have called city sanitation or a dog pound."

Gregory was effectively silenced. Of course. He knew. Spring would arrive and Watson would rot like some mammoth removed from its Siberian deep freeze. Of course. He knew. But he was tired.

"Look, officer, I'm sorry, I was doing it for a friend--"

"You a preacher?" The officer saw the Bible on the Chevy's dash.

"Yes." Gregory's embarrassment grew.

The officer shook his head, and looked away at the bare branches of the trees and the lurid glare of the sun. He rubbed his gloved hands up and down on the greasy leather of his jacket, then, squinting, pulled his helmet's sun visor down over his protruding eyes. He looked back at Gregory, his mouth appearing strained and uncertain below the visor's inviolability. Gregory pulled up his collar around his ears, and waited.

"Preacher, those are funny duties to be carrying out here. I ought to fine you." He hesitated. "Hell, of all people. Don't do it again."

"It's unlikely."

The officer had no comeback, and they stood facing each other in the empty parking lot, the patrol car's engine idling, the drifts on the lake fading in even more fantastic colors, and the chill rapidly overcoming both of them. Then Gregory, aware of all this, saw his own reflection in the law's inscrutable smoke-tinted mask: the iron gray brush of thick hair sweeping up like a crested wave over a high forehead, the craggy cheeks, the oversized head set on a pair of narrow but lithe shoulders--all neatly framed for that instant by the black cushioned foam that marked off the plexiglass from the scratched white helmet.

The policemen drove away. Gregory sat alone in the cold car, watching the dim light fade on the ice of Michigan. Chester, for you. Be glad.

He felt the impulse, just a small one, to hurl a calvinist's cries of damnation at pathetic, rebellious Chester. Then he saw again, vividly, the reflection in the mask, and the helmeted officer's own stony and ridiculous, then impenetrable, face of judgment, the face of the law. Gregory's mouth broke into a little grin. Angel of judgment, judge the merciful. His grin widened on his wide mouth. He broke into a peal of audible laughter. Anyone around would have thought he was crazy. He turned the ignition.

Daniel Born divided his time between writing fiction and clerking at a bookstore in Chicago when this story appeared.