THE STORY THAT MADE THEM CRY: CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

NOVEMBER 25, 2023

“THE FINAL JOURNEY”

ANOKA, MN – JULY 13, 1979/BJÖRNHOLM – GRINDSTONE LAKE, NW WI – JULY 14, 1979

Mother made the arrangements. It had always been that way—Dad making the decisions and Mother carrying them out. But when it came to the actual trip to Doc Andberg, Dad alone assumed the burden.

Everyone knew Doc Andberg. Not only did he treat every well-loved four-footed friend in town, but the taciturn veterinarian had achieved international fame as a champion master-class marathoner long before distance running was in vogue.

His wife Ruth was a worldwide birder, though locally she was known for her prominent “weird” accent, which some of us would learn was quite common in parts of Boston, Massachusetts. Doc himself was from New Hampshire, and as was the case with many “foreigners” (Mother among them) living in Minnesota, he and Ruth (and Mother) had come to the Land of 10,000 Lakes to attend graduate school at the University—and wound up settling in the state. Mother was a good friend of Ruth, which, in retrospect, was no surprise. Ruth was at once cerebral and outgoing, and her politics were outspokenly liberal.

On many-a-day over the years, I’d seen Doc in his white running shorts and singlet jog past our house on what was the first mile of his 10- or 15-mile daily run. I was impressed that a guy older than Dad could repeat such a feat day after day, rain, snow, or shine. Mother and Dad were just as impressed: if they were on hand and happened to see Doc float by, they’d say, “There goes Doc Andberg!”

Ever since Björn had joined our family, I’d accompanied Mother on the annual rabies and distemper shot appointments with Doc Andberg. He worked out of the basement of the Andberg’s house shaded by big oaks on a large lot up on Park Street. Access to the neat, modest veterinary facility was by way of an exterior set of stairs under a metal bulkhead identical to the arrangement on the backside of our house. Inexplicitly Björn was always spooked by the open bulkhead and stairs. On the rare occasions when the tornado siren went off, and we worked frantically to get Björn to the safety of the basement, he steadfastly refused to go down those steps. Only by carrying down could Dad overcome Björn’s resistance.

Björn likewise dug in his paws each year when I attempted to lead him down to Doc Andberg’s basement clinic. Even Doc himself couldn’t coax Björn down the stairs and always wound up administering the annual shots outside.

 *                     *                      *

Dad had left work early on that Friday—Friday the 13^th of July. After changing clothes, he loaded the coffin into the trunk of his car, then for the last time lifted the dog leash off the can opener attached to the wall next to the back door of the garage and made his way to the kennel. If Björn sensed Dad’s presence, he was too lame to stand up and greet him. And too crippled walk.

Dad clipped the leash to Björn’s collar—knowing surely that the act was purely ceremonious in its finality—then stooped to scoop up in his long arms, the worn-out bundle of bones and fur.

Björn had lost considerable weight since the days when Dad had carried him down to the basement during tornado watches and warnings and across the threshold from the porch to the kitchen up at the cabin. But Dad himself had aged, and most critically, his back had often signaled pain when put to the task of lifting anything of immodest weight. On that fateful Friday, with Björn in his arms Dad got only as far as halfway around the yard to the driveway.

After putting Björn down gently in the grass, Dad retrieved a tarp from the basement, then moved the car to the street and parked along the curb closest to where Björn lay. Dad spread out the tarp, pulled Björn onto it and dragged him to the car.

At the clinic Doc Andberg helped Dad unload the old king of collies. For the first time Björn offered no resistance to the steps leading down to the basement. Doc carried him down. He described the scene for me when we encountered each other three months later at the staging area of the 1979 City of Lakes Marathon.

“Your dad was very attached to that dog, and I understood why . . . Björn was one of the most beautiful dogs I’ve ever encountered.” For the laconic “Gray Ghost,”[1] that was saying a lot.

“Yeah, your dad got pretty choked up,” Doc continued. “But truth be told, you’d be surprised by the men of Anoka. Men your dad knows, men you know. When they bring their old hunting dogs in to be put down, they bawl their eyes out . . . Your dad wasn’t crying out loud, but he soaked his handkerchief pretty good.”

*                      *                      *

That evening in New Jersey Gaga was beating me at a game of Scrabble. Since we’d made a long weekend in Connecticut out of the Fourth of July, Gaga, Grandpa, and Uncle Bruce had elected to stay back in Rutherford for the current weekend. When the phone rang, Gaga picked up. It was Mother and she asked straight away for me.

“Hello, Eric. Dad’s on the line too.”

I could barely greet them before Mother imparted the news. “This afternoon Dad took Björn to Doc Andberg’s.”  She didn’t need to say anything more. The call was as difficult for her and Dad to make as it was for me to receive; harder—for Dad, anyway.

“He went quietly,” said Dad, “in my arms.”

“Dad, I’m so sorry you had to be there alone for it. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

He gave no reply, and after several seconds, Mother said “I think he hung up.” She waited a second or two more.

“Dad?” I said. Further silence confirmed that he’d dropped from the call.

“I’ve only seen your dad cry on two occasions,” she said, “and today was one of them.”[2]

*                      *                      *

The next day Dad drove to the cabin. After unloading the car and changing into work clothes (he always wore nicer attire for the drive and for any necessary trips into town during his stay at Björnholm), he turned to what he thought would be the final part of the story of his beloved dog.

He slid the coffin out of the trunk and onto the ground. To save his back, he tied a rope to the large metal hook he’d affixed to one end of the wooden box and with the aid of several five-foot lengths of pipe laid on the ground, rolled the load all the way to the west side of the cabin. On the slope facing the lake, he selected a place with an empyrean view framed by the trees. There he dug the grave.

The glacial soil, with its mix of stones and roots, didn’t yield willingly—nor was the coffin Chouhuahua size. Dad toiled in the July sun for over an hour. When the job was finished, he worked further to build a cairn marking the grave . . . until the next ice age would reshape the earth.

*                      *                      *

Three weeks later I flew home from New Jersey and drove straight up to Björnholm. Upon my arrival at dusk, Dad led me to the cairn, where we exchanged expressions of affinity for the great collie who’d romped so happily in that paradise to which he’d given his name. Dad and I—and anyone else who would have observed us—had every reason to think the sun had set on the story of our beloved dog.

As life turned, however, we—and the rest of the family—would have to wait 20 years for the final chapter to unfold. (Cont.)

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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson

[1] As Doc came to be known after being seen on Halloween wending his workout run through a local cemetery.

[2] She never disclosed what the other occasion had been. I, on the other hand, never mentioned a third time, which only I had observed. Dad and I were home alone one evening. I was 10 and had been told to practice my violin for half an hour. I actively resisted the order. Dad and I got into a argument about it, and I stubbornly refused to cooperate. He finally gave up and stormed out of my bedroom, which doubled as my appointed practice room. He resisted the temptation of slamming the door so that I could hear him pound the steps with anger on his way down to the front hallway and into the living room. I sat on the edge of my bed and pouted. A minute or two later, I heard a strange sound emanating from the living room. Curious, I quietly stepped down the staircase to the baluster, where I could peer furtively around the end of the hallway and see the sofa where Dad was now sitting—and sobbing. The strange sound was Dad crying—something I’d never before witnessed or ever expected to see. It stung. I realized how much it meant to him that I amount to something on the violin. In my immaturity I viewed his reaction as a further sign that he’d never understand me. Eventually I achieved redemption, but it would take many more battles and discovery of music on my own terms and time.