The Graveyard Dog

I stood in the unfamiliar cemetery, surrounded by unpronounceable names.  We, the family and I, had come to pay our respects to a nephew, silenced in the prime of his life by a drunk driver and a 1984 Toyota.  But I didn’t belong here, I was a trespasser in this domain of death.  The very tombstones seemed to accuse me of this infraction. Lo siento! Lo siento! I repeated over and over to the reproachful spirits as I walked across the unnaturally green turf between headstones, trailing behind the others.  It became my mantra.
         We stopped at a tombstone.  It was minimalist and utilitarian, with only a name and two dates on it.  There were flowers in a specially made cup at the top, wilted roses, maybe a week old.  Israel Cherrez-Munoz.  That was his name.  When he died, he was a year younger than me. Seventeen.  The thought of someone being so vibrant and full of life one day and dead and buried the next made me shiver.
         The only other living soul in the cemetery was a mangy stray dog.  She was small and scarred, walking with a slight limp in her right front paw.  Her face spoke of terrier blood lines, but she was so emaciated and filthy that it was impossible to tell much else about her breeding.  She was fleabitten and ugly, resembling any other stray dog roaming a back alley, but there was something special about her.  Her eyes held a keen intelligence and compassion, unnerving in any animal besides a human, and her actions were deliberate and thoughtful, completely unlike the half-crazed, skittish dance that most dogs performed when they had been on the street for too long. 
         At first, the Graveyard Dog quietly sniffed along the back fence, carefully nosing her way towards us, slowly but deliberately.  Around me, the family were too wrapped up in their own grief to notice the matted scrap of fur.  They had lived in Ecuador for too long to have any fascination with the massive amount of strays roaming around.  Ligia straightened her stylish white sweater, and got some water to wash down the headstone and hydrate the fresh bouquet that we had bought from the indigeno flower seller in town.  Her tears flowed as freely from her eyes as water from the spigot where she stood.  She was two years older than Israel would have been, a fine arts and fashion major at the University in Ambato.  She was the mother hen of all of the cousins, and it hit her hard when Israel was killed.  She should have been there, she thought.
         Lali knelt in front of the marble slab, rearranging the flowers.  She looked like a ten-year-old, lost and fragile, somehow shrunken from the vivacious, forty-something woman I knew.  Her makeup had run in two bleary streaks down her face, but she made no attempt to wipe away the water.  Her husband, Damian, knelt next to her, absently tossing some leaves aside.  His eyes were red and grief-stricken, but tearless.  They had been in America when Israel died, and now it killed them that they hadn’t been able to come in time for his funeral.
         Their three sons stood behind them.  The two eldest, Damian Jr. and Daniel, tried not to cry unmanly tears.  They were in high school, and such ostentasious shows of grief were unforgiveable breaches of male stoicism.  They blinked rapidly, eyes shining and wet.  The third, David, who was only 10, cried unabashedly, wiping his face on Damian’s t-shirt.  It was the only time I had seen Damian be so tolerant of little brother.  I didn’t know what they were feeling, because they never told me. 
         The other two cousins,  Belen and Esteban, stood next to the three boys.  Belen, who was 13, had her face buried in Esteban’s chest and was sobbing uncontrollably.  Esteban had perfunctorily wrapped his arm around her, but his posture was defeated.  Eyes dead.  He had been irreversibly damaged by this ordeal.  Israel had not only been his cousin, he was a best friend, a brother, and a confidant.  Above all that, death had snatched him away right in front of Esteban.  They had been standing side by side on the sidewalk, and then, in a flash of headlights, there was only one left.  The other was gone, silenced forever under two tons of steel.  He was eighteen, an age Israel would never reach, and he blamed himself for it.  He should have seen it coming, pulled
         I stood back, arms crossed, scrunched up and trying to disappear.  The Graveyard Dog was much closer now she stood about ten feet behind me, wagging her tail ever so slightly, appraising us.  Then, as if judging that the time was right, she trotted up to me and nudged my calf, cold nose startling me. I looked down, straight into those strange eyes.  She nudged me again and I bent down to scratch her ears, ignoring the black that rubbed off on my hand.  I smiled, because it almost seemed like she had given me permission to be here.  She shook herself and continued on to the others, because my discomfort wasn’t so important. 
         She visited each of us, offering support through wet nosed nudges and a wagging tail.  Sometimes she was rewarded with a relieved smile and a hasty pat on the head, but more often than not, she was pushed away, deterred with a harsh word or a push.  She continued on undaunted.  It was like she had to help.  After each harsh word, she circled around, calming herself, and then came back to her target.  She didn’t expect food or touch, only a look or a smile that said she had done her job. 
         One by one, I noted a change in each of my companions.  David was the first to succumb to her charm.  He sat down on the ground and scratched her behind the ears, whispering something to her.  Damian Jr. saw his brother with the dog and relaxed a bit.  He even gave a small, watery smile.  Then GD moved on to Daniel, sitting next to him, leaning against his leg and reaching her nose up to rest on his thigh.  Waiting for him to reach down, she wagged her tail and stretched a bit higher.  Daniel looked down, and the dam burst, he cried, letting his pent up emotion come out, emptying the toxic waste that had built up in his soul. 
         At first, Damian Sr. and Lali ignored GD.  She moved to them, and sat stoically beside them.  She even bowed her head down, as if paying her respects to Israel.  The husband and wife noticed this, and although there was no visible change, I sensed a change to the atmosphere around them, as if they had been obsessing over a missing puzzle piece and it had clicked into place at that moment.  They relinquished their spots to Ligia, who had returned with a bucket of water filled to the brim. 
         She carefully filled the cup with water, washing away the stagnant water from the last roses.  Then she used the rest of the water to rinse off the stone, clearing away the dust that had settled into the letters of his name.  GD picked up one of the flowers that Lali had discarded and brought it over to Ligia.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it did happen.  Ligia felt the petals brush against her hand and started, thinking it was a bug.  GD didn’t even flinch.  When she saw that it was a dog bearing flowers, her worry and guilt faded into the background of her expression.  She took the flower in her hand and placed it at the forefront of the bouquet, even though it looked odd among the carnations and forget-me-nots. 
         Graveyard Dog’s then moved on to Belen, nudging Belen’s calf as she had mine.  Belen extracted herself from Esteban, leaving a wet spot on the front of his shirt.  Her face was red and blotchy, but when she saw GD, her eyes lit up.  She knelt down and hugged the filthy bag of bones, ignoring the mud that streaked across her lilac shirt.  GD made no attempt to move, resting her muzzle against Belen’s shoulder.  She was content to play the stuffed animal if it meant that she could help a person.
         Her final target was Esteban.  I regret to say that even graveyard dog couldn’t help him. His response to her attentions was a swift kick to the ribs.  It sent GD whimpering back to her side of the cemetery, limping.  Unfortunately , I was the only one who saw this little episode.  Everyone else had retreated into their own private bubble of grief.  I’ll never, as long as I live, forget the look that GD threw Esteban as she limped off.  It was eerily human, helpless, wistful and concerned.  Esteban remained as he was before; arms crossed, glaring off into space.  I wanted to talk to him about what he had done, reprimand him even, but I couldn’t.  I don’t know why.
         Soon after, we picked up and left.  The mood leaving, though still pregnant with unspoken words and grief, was somehow lighter, less oppressive.  There was even some idle chit-chat as we got into the car.  I have no doubt that this was the doing of GD.  She was a dog with more heart than most humans will ever have, and, even though I only saw her once, she’s etched into my brain.  She’s an inspiration to me.  As we piled into the back of the pick-up truck, I watched her going to comfort another family.  Then we pulled onto the highway, and I never saw her again.