Losing a friend, especially one like Queen, was almost more than a ten-year-old should be asked to bear. You see, Queen was my dog, and she lost a violent battle with rabies just as she and I were beginning to live.
Queen was part Collie and part German Shepherd. Fully grown, she possessed the markings of both breeds and had apparently inherited the temperaments of both parents as well. Usually gentle and loving, she did show traces every now and then of her Shepherd blood. She could be fierce when she chose to be; fortunately, she didn�t exercise that option very often.
Two years before, Daddy had agreed that we could have a dog if we would take care of her. Caring for her was about the only chore I looked forward to; in fact, my brother Bill and I sometimes fought over who would take her food and water. Queen and I were almost inseparable as we roamed the woods and pastures north of town, scaring up quail and large grasshoppers as we tromped noisily through the tall grass and scrub brush. She especially loved chasing grasshoppers though she never caught one.
Queen had been just a puppy when Daddy brought her home. A small ball of dancing fur, she had charmed everyone, even old Mr. Bankhead who didn�t like animals of any sort and who voiced that opinion whenever the opportunity arose. He said Queen was different, kind of sophisticated, if you will. She did hold herself rather erect, like one of the women we saw in the Spiegel�s catalog. In fact, it was because of her regal appearance that Daddy first referred to her as �the Queen.� The name stuck, and it suited her. I figured since I was her best friend, I could call her �Queenie�, but she would have none of that and even refused to acknowledge me the one time I addressed her so informally. It was as if she were saying, �To you I�m Queen and don�t you ever forget it. I�ll let it pass this time but don�t let it happen again.� I didn�t.
I think Queen liked Bill okay, but I was clearly her favorite, probably because we spent so much time running side by side through so many childhood adventures. I even taught her to play baseball, and she would shag the flyballs for me and return them to my makeshift home plate. The ball usually had teeth marks and dog slobber on it, but I didn�t care. Anyway Queen and I had shared a sandwich more than once, so I wasn�t squeamish about such things.
It was late spring when I first noticed that Queen had lost her appetite and didn�t seem nearly as excited to see me when I arrived home from school. She definitely wasn�t her usual self, and even though she still wagged her tail as I questioned her, her enthusiasm had waned. Bill said maybe she had spring fever like the rest of us and was ready for school to be out. �Maybe dogs need a break from their routine, too,� he suggested. I hoped he was right, but deep down I knew it was more than that.
It was that same day that I overheard Daddy on the phone talking in hushed tones to Dr. Crenshaw, the veterinarian. Shortly after he hung up the phone, he called Bill and me into the kitchen where he was sitting at the table.
�Queen�s sick, and Doc Crenshaw said we should pen her up for a few days. I will put her in the smokehouse, and you must not, under any circumstances, go into the smokehouse or let her out. The doctor said it might be rabies.�
�You mean Queen might be mad!� I heard myself saying. �Isn�t there something we can do?�
�We must watch her for a few days. If it�s rabies, she�ll have to be destroyed for her sake as well as ours,� Daddy answered with a slight trembling in his voice.
�Destroyed? What do you mean?� I asked as tears welled up in my eyes and an uncomfortable lump suddenly appeared in my throat, making breathing difficult.
�Someone will have to shoot her� was all Daddy said before he quickly got up from the table and went out onto the back porch. I could see him through the kitchen window as he pulled the handkerchief from his overalls pocket and wiped his eyes and nose.
I remembered what Daddy had said about going into the smokehouse, but I couldn�t bear the thought of Queen being locked up and alone. As I made my way to the smokehouse, I could hear her shuffling about inside and making a bruffing noise like someone trying to clear his throat. I could see through a gap between the smokehouse door and the door frame. �Queen,� I called softly to her. �It�s going to be all right. You�ll be better in a day or two, and we�ll let you out so we can go fishing or play some baseball.�
Momentarily, she raised her head as if she heard a familiar voice, then suddenly lunged toward the door. She fell but regained her feet and looked at me through the crack. She didn�t look like Queen as she made a sound like a baby trying to cry and lunged once more at the door before falling in a heap and jerking uncontrollable. Turning her head, she looked pleadingly at me with a pain and fear in her eyes I�d never seen before.
�I love you, Queen� was all I could utter before I ran back to the house to get Daddy.
Daddy called Doc Crenshaw and asked if he could come to the house. In about thirty minutes, as the doctor drove up and got out of his truck, the first thing I noticed was the revolver sticking out of his back pocket. He and Daddy talked for a minute before going toward the smokehouse. I tried to follow them, but Daddy motioned me back to the house. They stood for the longest of moments peering through the crack in the door before Daddy came back to the house where Mama, Bill, and I stood fidgeting on the back porch.
�She�s almost gone,� he said faintly. �She can�t get up or even raise her head. Doc Crenshaw has offered to put her out of her misery.�
�Can�t I just see her one last time and tell her that I love her?� I pleaded, my voice coming in short gasps.
�I�m sorry, Son, but she won�t know you. She�s out of her head with the suffering.�
Daddy led us all into the house, and we sat down together on the couch. Mama put her arms around me and pulled me tightly to her as Daddy put his arm around Bill�s shoulder. As the single gunshot broke the silence, a part of me died as well.
Standing next to the fresh mound of dirt under the chinaberry tree where Daddy had laid her to rest, I remembered those treks through the woods and pastures when Queen chased grasshoppers and I chased her, thinking that childhood would never end. I managed the faintest of smiles as I laid a jonquil on her grave and walked slowly back to the house.
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