“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Ah, yes, such a comfortable truth to hear moments after seeing exactly that.

In a way, I did find it comforting when she expressed her hushed gasp and look of horror while relaying to me the regret of what I had witnessed. Was it regret of what had been done, or regret that my eyes had fallen upon the stomach-flipping scene. Was it even regret? Or just fear? Shame? Did it matter?

I’d been here before. The previous year, in fact. That’s what makes this all the more intense. More strange. More confusing. The previous summer my step-mother, father and I all loaded into the car and made the over 8 hour voyage from our city life in Austin, Texas to the country land of Durant, Oklahoma, where my grandparents resided. Their ranch home was tucked within miles and miles of towering pecan trees and endless scamperings of anything from bobcats to hares to copperheads to hornets.

Their rottweiler, a good boy named Jack, instantly became my favorite feature about the visit. Though they had 2 dogs, I couldn’t tell you anything about the other. As a 4 or 5 year old rambunctious little boy, Jack was my guy. Jack and I were buds. I loved Jack. I don’t even know why. We didn’t get to interact that much. I was so young. Yet, all year long, before we returned in the summer, I reminisced about Jack’s big, happy smile and wet, sloppy kisses. Running in the yard while Jack gnawed on bones. Shrieking at the leaping grasshoppers while Jack frolicked free. Nothing could have ever prepared me for what seeing Jack would be like the second time around.

As we got out of the car and stretched our legs and dodged assaulting insects, having made it through the hustle and bustle of Big Dallas and the upper border of Texas, plus the ten minute straight shot on the bumpy dirt road that lead straight to our destination, I immediately looked at Jack’s pen. But this was different. The air felt different. The lighting was different. And Jack wasn’t the same.

He didn’t seem himself. His eyes were empty, his passion missing. His love for everything had become extinguished. He spun in circles. Again and again. He ran into walls and gates. Again and again. And kept spinning. Confused. Distant. Gone. A pit rose in my stomach. A fire in my heart. Unsure of whether to cry or throw up or get angry, I reluctantly, but emphatically, asked my parents to tell me what was wrong with Jack.

“Papa said he got sick. He lost his mind. His head isn’t right anymo-.”

“Well, how does he get better?!”

“It’s not curable. He’s that way now.”
“That way now? There’s gotta be something!”

The next morning my dad and I were the first ones up, as usual. He poured his fresh cup of black coffee and extended an invite my way to join him on a walk through the pasture to watch the sun rise. Mornings like these with my father were wonderfully common in those days, and forever special. As we made our way through the front yard and near the edge of the gated property, set to embark on a limitless expedition into the wild wonder of the forest that surrounded the home, we passed Jack’s dog house.

There was no movement, no distress, and no Jack. About 20 yards to the side there was a giant pile of wood and trash and junk. A burning pile. I had seen it the day before. Only this time, Jack’s head - fully severed from his now missing body, mouth agape and filled with buzzing flies, eyes open and dry, tongue immovable and stiff - was near the top of the pile, in between some dead branches, cold, frightening and lifeless.

As I quickly averted my eyes from my newly decapitated friend, I then saw his body, a little behind him, at a lower spot in the pile. Legs bent and stiff, torso hardened and empty, canine headless and trashed. 

I nearly passed out. My stomach warbled. My head overflowed with absolutely nothing. I was frozen.

“What…is that…”

“Oh, jeez. I guess Papa put Jack out of his misery.”

I was silent and barely functional the entire walk back to the house. Shortly after getting breakfast the reality of my morning bubbled over.

“I saw Jack’s head in the pile.”

“Oh no, I wish he hadn’t done that. You weren’t supposed to see that.”, my step-mom awkwardly expressed.

In my innocent youth, I feel like I could have slowly come to terms with the concept of “putting down” a beloved pet when their quality of life is no longer existent at any decent level due to incurable physical decline. I didn’t know exactly how that process could be played out, and I really didn’t think to give much thought to the various hypothetical methods of supportive murder. If anything, I imagined the ol’ Ol’ Yeller shotgun routine to be plausible as what country folks would choose. Going to the vet probably made sense, though it’d probably be pricey. I definitely, whole-heartedly, absolutely never imagined that physically separating the freshly deceased skull of that hypothetical pet from his own natural body would ever be an act to commit at any point, for any reason.

Yet, this is exactly what I was looking at. The lackluster explanation I was provided clearly didn’t match the drastic choice of action by my grandfather based upon the discomfort and disgust that can be heard in the tone of everybody that I’ve ever told this story to, to this day.

“I wish he hadn’t done that.”

Is this something he just…does? Are there past dogs before my life time that got beheaded and banished to the flaming trash pile? What about his cows? Are their heads valued away from their bodies? What tools is he using to achieve this? Did he do it after I went to bed in the darkness of night or right before I woke up in the shadows of the early morning? Did he sit and breathe for a minute after he finished or did he just go whip up another batch of coffee and tend to his casual morning duties? Did he learn how to do this from someone else or did he go through some trial and error? Did he pick this up in the Air Force or on the farm? What on God’s Green Earth is actually going on?

I hear vague whispers of attempted rationalizations given back then…oh it lessens the chance of disease while he’s rotting, it helps the body decompose more naturally, it - blah blah blah.

It was horrific. It was shocking. And it was something that very hastily and nonchalantly became normalized in my own life experience so much so that by the time I was in high school, and as I progressed into adulthood,