Charlie

Charlie


I was only six when Charlie died.

I loved Charlie with all of my heart, or at least as much heart as a six-year-old can give. Charlie was my grandparents’ miniature collie dog, a little vicious ball of fur. He was a beautiful dog with the characteristic narrow nose and gold and white coat, short legs and a tail that waved as a flag following him

My grandma called one night and said that Charlie had died. He had gotten into my grandpa’s fishing gear and swallowed a hook. She said it had lodged in his throat, and that was how he died. What she meant was that he choked on his own blood out in the fishing shed, his throat torn from the inside out. But she didn’t tell me that. I was only six when Charlie died.

Charlie was one of the most energetic dogs ever. He would have to be, growing up on my grandparents’ farm. He would jump on everyone, even my dad – who is allergic. Charlie loved everyone, though, and it showed. He knew he was cute, and used it the fullest advantage. He would always get table scraps, treats, or pieces of something, whining and begging until he got a snack. I thought he was too cute to resist.

I remember when my parents told me that Charlie was gone. I didn’t understand, really. But I cried and pouted and showed all the theatrical versions of how people can mourn. Wasn’t that what people did when someone died? My parents comforted me, as I saw they also did on movies, and explained about death and how it was okay. That it was going to be okay. I still don’t understand. I was only six when Charlie died.

I didn’t fully understand until I traveled to my grandparents house a few months later. I was so excited, I was going to get to play with Charlie! As soon as the car pulled into the driveway, I was out and bounding up the steps to my grandparents’ front door. My grandmother opened the door before I was halfway up the steps, and I flung myself past her and into the house. I braced myself, waiting to get jumped on. It didn’t happen.

I slowly opened one eye, and then the other. I looked around, turning in circles to take in everything. I was confused. “Where’s Charlie?”

My grandmother sobered up, and my parents glanced at me in surprise. I repeated my question, and still no one answered. I was getting frustrated, so I asked one more time. It was my grandma’s soft, quiet voice that I remember. “Charlie’s dead.”

“But that was months ago. Isn’t he back yet?”

“No. He’s not coming back.”

“Why? Why can’t he?”

“Because he’s dead, sweetie.”

So I finally got it. My six-year-old mind grasped the cold fact of death. He was gone. Charlie was dead. He was dead and he wasn’t coming back. Ever. I decided, in that moment, that I hated death. But I didn’t cry. I only nodded and walked back outside to the car to get my bag.

I dragged it inside, but the adults were still quietly standing there. Taking my bag to my room, I never mentioned Charlie again. I don’t think I could stomach that look on my grandma’s face again. Yes, I hate death.

I was only six when Charlie died.


:~: BloodyBunny