THE STORY THAT MADE THEM CRY: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NOVEMBER 24, 2023

“LAST LEGS”

ANOKA, MN – JULY 9 – 10, 1979

After dinner Dad changed out of his office attire and with a reluctant gait headed back to the kennel. He carried the leash—out of habit, no longer as as a precaution. Ever since I’d trained Björn a dozen years before, he heeled most obediently on his long daily walks over the years. The leash was used purely to restrict his instincts, should a squirrel or rabbit’s instincts lead an impulsive chase into the path of a passing vehicle. But for the past couple of years, Björn had been well beyond the “old dog” threshold. He’d long given up the chase, and recent months had brought further decline.

The daily walk was now little more than a shuffle up the yard from the kennel, across the front lawn, down the driveway, then along the curb, and along an arc to the other side of the street in front of Moore’s house . . . and back.

On that evening in June 1979, Fred was out inspecting his manicured yard for any clandestine weeds. Seeing Dad and Björn, Fred sauntered to the curb.

“Dog’s looking older than he did last week, Ray.”

“Don’t know how much longer he can walk at all, Fred.”

“Know somethin’ Ray? . . . You’ve given that dog o’ yours a wonderful life.”

“I’m gonna miss ’im, Fred.”

“You’re a good man, Ray . . . and your dog knows it . . . I don’t know anyone who’s treated a dog as well as you’ve treated Björn.”

“Thanks, Fred.” With that, Dad escorted Björn back toward our driveway. Björn’s hindquarters were barely able to support continued progress.

“And he’s been a good neighbor all these years too, Ray!” Fred called out. “I’m gonna miss seein’ him.”

The next evening Dad didn’t bother with the leash. He led Björn to the back steps behind the garage and carried him up into the garage proper and laid him gently on the floor by the steps into the house. Dad had left his car in the driveway to make room for the tools, lumber, and sawhorses he needed for a building project.

Among his many other accomplishments, Dad had mastered the art and technique of whistling. His signature embellishment was an open and closed trill. Not surprisingly, his best performances were reserved for his best wood-working projects. But on that occasion, he wasn’t whistling confidently. He was sobbing quietly. He was building a coffin.

*                      *                      *

The month before I’d taken my first trip to Europe. I’d planned and plotted it far in advance—fly Icelandair to Luxembourg, then with a Eurail Pass, take a train to Sweden to visit our Swedish cousins; go on to Stockholm, then over to Oslo, Bergen, and back; head south to Salzburg, do some hiking in the Swiss Alps, then play it by ear from there before flying back to JFK on July 1. I talked Jenny into traipsing along, at least for the first half if the trip. We had a blast.

According to preset plans, upon arriving back in the states, I made my way over to Rutherford to help Uncle Bruce with his rug-cleaning operation in exchange for a modest stipend to replenish my coffers. I’d stay at 42 Lincoln, accompany Uncle Bruce, Gaga, and Grandpa to Connecticut on the weekends, and work for the fully month of July before heading home to Minnesota.

Because of my month in Europe, I hadn’t been around to witness Björn’s precipitous decline. I knew he wasn’t long for this world, but the distractions of my happy travels hither and yon across Western Europe displaced my sentimentality over Dad’s best friend and the dog’s inevitable demise[1].

Later in the evening of the day when Dad had finished his carpentry project in anticipation of “the dog’s inevitable demise,” Mother called 42 Lincoln. After her usual chat with Gaga and Grandpa and a few words with Uncle Bruce, she asked to speak with me. By that point, Dad had picked up one of the extension phones.

“Hello, Eric,” said Mother. “Dad’s on the line downstairs.”

After a perfunctory exchange, Mother got down to the sad reality at hand.

“Eric, Björn is on his last legs. We’re afraid we’re going to have to have him put to sleep.”

There was nothing to say, nothing to argue about. When I’d left for Europe more than a month before, I knew I might never see Björn again. I was sad, of course, but he’d become so lame, I recognized that keeping him alive involved a distinct element of cruelty. It was not hard to understand that another five weeks hadn’t improved his ccondition. If Mother and Dad were seeking my consent, I at least conveyed my acquiescence in their decision.

“I understand,” I said.

“We thought you should know, Eric,” said Dad. The quaver in his voice told me he was barely able to hold himself together. After he dropped off the call, Mother told me about the coffin Dad had made. (Cont.)

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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson

[1]I wound up getting as far as the Acropolis, mostly so I could give Mother andDad a firsthand account of the Parthenon, about which they’d always been enthusiasts, thought they’d gotten only as close to it as the replica at Nashville’s Centennial Park on our family’s return from a road trip to Florida 20 years before. When I informed my parents (via Jenny) that I was heading for Athens (from Switzerland), they thought I was crazy (I learned upon my return) reaching so far. (Little did they know that less than two years later, I’d be absent for nearly 10 months circumnavigating the world.)