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Saturday, June 26 2010
     Twenty years from now, someone will dig up the garden outside the kitchen window and wonder
why there is a bag of kitchen trash buried with a dog.  You may be wondering that yourself.
     Yesterday when we buried Kona we struggled to find something to bury with him, some treasure
that he lived for, something to carry with him along his journey.  But stuffed animals,
bones, and tennis balls were just not his thing. So Other Half came up with an idea that
despite the crappy day, had me laughing through the tears.
     "Bury him with a bag of garbage!"
     It was perfect!  Kona, The Enforcer, was THE Quintessential Garbage Hound.  From the time he
was a toddler, he was raiding garbage cans.  We used to keep the garbage can under the sink. 
 He learned to open the cabinet.  We put bungee cords on the cabinet doors.  He tore the
cabinet molding off and chewed the bungee cords in half.  (I KNOW!  He was a BEAST!)
     Soooo. . . I bought a fancy $70 brushed metal trash can with a step-pedal that lifted the
lid.  He learned to step on the pedal and lift the lid.
     So we started keeping the garbage in small plastic bags in the kitchen sink that had to be
carried outside the main gate and placed into the outside garbage can EVERY TIME YOU LEFT
THE HOUSE! If you failed, even once, to remove that bag from the sink, he would have it
shredded all over the kitchen floor when you returned.  Just last week I had to call Other
Half and have him return home because we forgot to take the garbage sack with us. He had
made it exactly one-tenth of a mile down the street.  By the time Other Half walked into the
kitchen, Kona already had the bag on the floor.  (Evil Beast!)
     Kona was my Cadaver Dog. He retired shortly after I moved to the Crime Scene Unit.  This was
through no fault of his. Dead people on duty and off duty was a bit too much for me, so he
retired to be a full-time ranch dog. He handled retirement quite well. It didn't matter to
him if he was looking for a dead people or looking for rats in the hay barn, a job was a
     I still vividly remember his last cadaver search. He was called to find skeletal remains
that had been scattered over a building site by a bulldozer.  It was already summer in
Texas.  It was hot. He worked like a trooper and soon found what turned out to be a key
piece of evidence - a large chunk of skull. It was the back of man's head. In the back of the skull
was a bullet hole. Our victim had been murdered. 
     That was the last time he worked for the medical examiner's office, but he worked the rest
of his life keeping rats out of the barn, carrying hammers and buckets for me, and generally
enforcing all the rules on the farm.
     He and Blue Heeler hated each other. Since Blue Heeler was a puppy, Kona tormented him
without mercy.  I promised him I won't let Blue Heeler piss on his grave.
     He was my cadaver dog. He was my farm dog. He was my friend.

Godspeed, Little Buddy
Posted by: forensicfarmgirl AT 10:15 am   |  Permalink   |  3 Comments  |  Email
Makes perfect sense to me. My mother kept a few chickens, but she especially loved her Aracaunas and the blue eggs they laid. She had all the hens named after her long-gone aunts. The last thing I did on the morning of Mom's funeral was to trek out to the henhouse and find a fresh blue egg. I tucked it in her pocket before they closed the casket. My 2 sisters had a fit....*What if it rots?? What if it breaks??* And my answer was *What difference will it make??*
Posted by Diane I. on 06/26/2010 - 01:42 PM
What wonderful tributes by a lovely person for a partner she loves still, and always will.....
Posted by Shari on 07/02/2010 - 09:10 PM
All I can say is you gotta have your partner's back . . . and you did. Good on y'all. RIP
Posted by Ken and Mary of Fancy Fibers Farm, Texas on 08/11/2010 - 04:15 PM

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