The man was with his seven-year-old daughter, Jamie, when the doorbell rang. He opened the door. It was their cleaner. She said, ‘Is that your dead dog?’ 

‘No,’ he said reflexively.

She looked confused. ‘It’s on the road.’

Jamie’s mouth wobbled. The man said to the cleaner and to Jamie, but mostly to Jamie, ‘I just saw Cherry. It’s not her’. The man touched Jamie’s face. ‘I’ll go see,’ he said. He gave the cleaner a look as he went out.

He looked at the dead dog, Cherry. She was off the road, on a pile of leaves that were composting against the fence. She was stretched out, mouth open. There was nothing wrong with her, except she was dead. The man carried Cherry to the garage via the garden, so no one would see. Then he went inside. 

His wife had been in the bedroom on her phone, having a break from the world and the kids, but she’d come out. The man nodded ever so slightly to her, and it almost broke her in two. The cleaner was folding washing, trying to look uninvolved. His wife pulled it together, she didn’t crack easily on the outside. 

‘It’s her,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

The kids broke, Charlotte, Jamie, ten and seven, they had so much faith in life, in the protection of their parents, and so much innocence and love. His wife held the girls, and the man kneeled and held them all. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.

That evening, after the cleaner had gone—the man hadn’t bothered having a quiet word with her about shutting the fuck up when the family dog dies, and the kids are right there, so maybe give him a minute before blurting out the dog’s dead so he can figure out how to tell everyone—the family prepared a funeral. 

While they prepared, the man debated the merits of dog ownership. They’d bought Cherry for the kids. The kids wanted the dog. His wife wanted the dog. His wife said it was divorce or dog. ‘Joking, joking,’ she said, ‘not,’ she said taking his face in her hands and kissing him, ‘not joking.’ In any case, they’d got a dog. Except she wasn’t a dog, because a dog was a broader concept than what they’d ended up with which was Cherry. And though Cherry was a subset of dog, she was way more than just a dog. 

The man wrapped Cherry in a towel. It didn’t wrap her all over, so he slid a hessian bag over her and pulled the drawstring. 

The earth in the backyard was rich and easy to dig. He dug the grave, because digging was a man thing. As was walking the dog. And feeding her. And picking up after her. And treating her with biscuits. 

The responsibility of the dog had fallen to the man even though he’d never asked for, nor wanted, a dog. Because the last thing he wanted was more responsibility when he felt daunted by responsibility. Responsibility of the children, of his part in guiding them through a world that was by any objective measure on the way to Fucksville. The man saw himself as a child when it came right to it. He was not his father, not a man like that, he had not even become a man yet. He was a child. He was scared of things. He would wake in the night and see someone at the end of the bed, the shadow figure, and he would be frightened rather than buff and ready. He was embarrassing. Especially when it was just the curtains moving. His father would’ve torn the room apart. His father would’ve known how to guide them.

The man lowered Cherry into the hole. The kids had been crying all afternoon, but his wife had held it together until the first shovelful of dirt landed on Cherry. Then she broke, completely, involuntarily and passionately and decisively. The man said, ‘She’ll be in our hearts,’ although he didn’t know if it was true, and he didn’t even know what it meant, he just knew he had to say something that made it sound like it wasn’t the end.

The funeral seemed to give the children and his wife a measure of peace; they accepted their exhaustion, and the children willingly showered and got into their pyjamas and slept. His wife prayed and slept. 

Just past midnight, the man was awake and listening to his wife’s breathing. He got out of bed and went to the grave. He had showered, and he had on clean pyjamas, but he knelt at the grave and dug the dirt back out with his hands. He dragged Cherry out of the hole and slid her out of the hessian bag and unwrapped the towel. The man put his hands on the dog and flattened her fur and he gently stroked her head. ‘I just wanted to come back and say goodbye,’ he said. ‘Because I didn’t get to say goodbye, the way I wanted to. I want you to know that you are my very good friend. You brought something into my life that I didn’t know I needed. I hope that I was good to you.’ The man tried not to cry loudly, even though he was letting go, he didn’t want to make a big deal in front of God, or his father, or himself, or whoever was watching. His tears wet her fur, so he dried her with the towel, and he sat back on his knees. It was later than he’d realised, and the faint grey light of pre-dawn was in the treetops. That was the way time moved you along, it just relentlessly went ahead without qualm. ‘Alright,’ he said quietly, and he wrapped Cherry in the towel and slid her in the bag and put her back in the hole.

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Glenn Orgias is an Australian writer. His memoir, Man In A Grey Suit, was published by Viking in 2012. He’s been nominated for Best Small Fictions and the Pushcart Prize in 2024, his writing can be found at X-R-A-Y, SmokeLong, Wigleaf, Pithead Chapel and other places.