I Went to a Dog's Funeral

R.I.P. Thor

I was on vacation last week, so I went home to New Hampshire for a few days to see my parents. My dad is in a networking group where everyone wakes up at an ungodly hour once a week to schmooze and eat donuts. One of his networking buddies runs a funeral home that recently began offering pet cremations and memorial services. Through this connection, I was invited by Pet Passages (the animal funeral company whose website’s homepage features a big bright blue bird, a cute little cat, and a happy looking dog) to cover the funeral of a nine year old German Shepard named Thor.

It took me about an hour to figure out what to wear. I had been to plenty of human funerals before, but never one for an animal. In fact, when my dog Otis died my parents didn't even tell me until two months after it happened. I was away at university and asked my Mom, quite nonchalantly, on the phone one day how my beloved Bichon Frisé was doing. Spoiler alert: he was dead.

I decided an all black outfit was unnecessary for the occasion, so I opted for some sensible navy blue chinos and a gray sweater. I thought neutrals conveyed a message of “I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm not personally and/or emotionally invested in the death of your dog.”

Throughout the drive, I attempted to subdue myself with mood music but wound up listening to Gwen Stefani’s Love. Angel. Music. Baby. after I found in the backseat of my car, blaring “Hollaback Girl” through the speakers like it was 2004 all over again. I was surprised to find Pet Passages had its own separate building, situated behind the chapel on the grounds of the cemetary. I was kind of expecting a taxidermied dog standing stiffly in the corner of a reception hall, but it turns out this business was much more established. Upon further research I discovered the dead pet industry is actually booming, because I guess there are all sorts of people out there who like their animals more than they like other human beings.

The ominous entrance.

Since I was the first to arrive, I spent a good ten minutes faking enthusiasm as I examined a display of cremation merchandise. I was intrigued by the urn necklaces shaped like tiny paw prints, and wondered whether or not that idea was cutely commemorative or simply just creepy. A reporter from the local news station showed up with her cameraman. As a teenager, I used to mock Channel 9 in my best television anchor voice for over-hyping every winter storm and creating news stories out of completely mundane events. Unsurprisingly, we talked about the upcoming blizzard as we waited for the dog funeral to begin.

I was given a brief tour around the facilities: the reception area, the crematorium and the private goodbye, “Rainbow Bridge Room,” which I guess was named after a poem, but I found confusing as dogs and cats cannot see colors. A Thor shrine was set up around the fireplace. It included a framed photo, his collar, leash, and a flower arrangement of daisies shaped like a bone.

The bone-shaped flower arrangement, obviously.

At five o'clock, Orman and Janice Melanson, the world's most adorable elderly couple, arrived with Thor's ashes in a small wooden box. Janice was talkative and bubbly and smiled a lot despite the somber setting. Orman was kind but quiet and walked with a cane. Janice claimedd she didn't know a T.V. reporter was going to be there, but she shined on camera like she's been waiting to be interviewed her whole life.

Before the service began, Orman and Janice answered reporters’ questions about their German Shepard. I am a dog lover through and through but I've never really been a fan of German Shepards because they have huge schnozes and remind me of Nazis. But as Orman described his companion, Thor, as “lovable and smaht (that's smart for all of you non-New Englanders) as a whip” I began to reconsider. “We needed Thor and Thor needed us,” said Janice as she and her husband settled into their seats to watch the tribute movie.

The grieving couple.

The couple shared Thor stories and wiped away occasional tears as pictures of their lost dog flashed across the television screen. The video opened with a lot of innocuous death symbolism, like a falling leaf blowing in the breeze, set to a slow piano melody. Clearly the funeral home understood the meaning of mood music. A professional eulogy reader named Jo said a few words and read a poem. I zoned out during her speech, but I chatted with Jo later on about her job, which she assured me is not always so melancholy (she also does weddings and child welcomings).

The professional eulogist.

I went into this assignment thinking that people who spend upwards of a thousand dollars on a pet's funeral are out of touch with reality and probably spent the better days of their teacup chihuahua's life pushing it around WalMart in a modified baby stroller. But the Melansons were compassionate people who wanted to care for their dog as much as he cared for them. When Orman slipped on the ice one day, Thor was there to prop him up until his owner could stand himself. Would a cat have done the same? Absolutely not, they're busy plotting how to overthrow their captors. Dogs deserve these lavish funerals because at the end of the day, when you come home from work, they just want to lick your face and love you unconditionally.

Follow Kelsey on Twitter at @kelseypudloski.

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