The woman nodded, wiping eyes on the backs of speckled hands, “Nowhere we stop will it be the same now, ever. She went first. Trix was like our … ambassador.”

“Got a shovel, son?” I saw they’d been trying to dig a hole. Digging with two motel water-glasses, one already broken. I found my dad absorbing war stories from the puzzle-loving clerk. “Any shovels?”

“Toolshed. Open. Beside 108.”

I found the large room full of washing machines and a huge dryer. Tools lined one wall. There was a calendar showing this woman with naked bosoms, sitting on a desk and saying, “I’m ready for Dictation, Mr. Wembley!” (Definite Clue.)

Once we got Trixie buried, I gathered two good sticks and some rusted wire. We set a cross upright in the newly turned red dirt. I found a pile of nice white rocks and placed these in a big “T” (for “Trixie”) crisscrossing the whole grave. Finally, I helped the old lady get to her feet. Then, in croaks, she was crying, counting on fingers:

“‘Sit up.’ ‘Lay down.’ ‘Beg.’ ‘Dead dog.’ ‘Beg pretty.’ ‘Walk on hind legs.’ ‘Shake.’ ‘Jump rope.’ ‘Heel.’ ‘Fetch.’ ‘Would you rather be Nixon?’ … ‘Stay,’” she backed away from crossed sticks. She half-ran to an overpacked car, yelling, “‘Stay,’ Trixie, ‘stay.’ …”

The old man thanked me. He apologized for his wife. He told me how much it meant to them that Trixie would be with somebody. He walked off slow. He shook his head. “Seems like nothing is … Seems like about the time you get … and then … and before long it’s … and then where really ARE you … ?”

I heard my dad honk the car horn. His usual “shave and a haircut, two bits.” I waited till the couple’s Dodge sedan pulled off. I replaced the shovel beside an almost naked calendar secretary. Then I trotted to his Packard. I wanted to tell Dad: Guess what? I just helped an old, old couple bury their old dog, one that knew so many tricks its name was Trixie, in praise.

But I found I stayed quiet as we drove.

I kept picturing the crossed sticks and pretty white rocks behind Whispering Pines etc. We’d buried Trixie in the pillowcase. I had told those people that my dad could spare it. Somehow I had posed as the motel owner’s son. I had let them believe this. It was one of my first adult acts (deceptions). That started off this strange Sunday. I told them I would keep Trixie’s grave looking nice. Could be, I’d bring flowers. I said things’d be okay, seeing how smart the dog was and everything. From now on I would stay in charge of her. Goodbye.

I was getting to adulthood fast, if adulthood means breaking minor stingy laws for major kindly reasons.