Love Thy Neighbor

By Kathy Luder

I was home alone one Saturday when the doorbell rang. “Oh, great,” I thought, “Here come the JW’s!” It wasn’t the JW’s. It was worse. It was our next-door neighbor.

“Hi, Mr. Winter. Are you okay?”

“Hi. Is your dad here?”

No. He went to the hardware store. He should be back pretty soon. Is something wrong?”

“Well...maybe I’ll wait out here for your dad.”

We don’t see much of Mr. Winter. He is an old bachelor and none too fond of kids. When we were little, he was always calling my mom to complain. He was especially fussy about his grass. He got really mad if we rode our bikes across his lawn. He yelled at us one time because we had drawn a hopscotch grid with colored chalk on the walk in front of his house. He said it would wash off and poison his grass. It didn’t. Another time, after two inches of snow in November, my brothers shoveled off his entire front lawn to get enough snow for their fort. It looked pretty awful, but from his reaction you would have thought they’d filled his mailbox with rancid meat! Okay, so they did that once. But he was mean.

That Saturday Mr. Winter was standing on our front porch, looking at the ground and trembling. My mind was racing as Dad pulled into the driveway. What was going on? I’d just gotten my license. Did it have something to do with my driving? I had driven over a few curbs that I hadn’t told my parents about and illegally given Susan a ride home from the game last night. Had Mr. Winter seen me?

Mr. Winter and I walked over to Dad’s car. Then, Mr. Winter started sobbing and saying, “Mr. Luder, I am so terribly sorry. It was an accident.”

My dad was bent over, pulling something out of the back seat. He turned around, holding the limp form of our dog Buster. Tears were running down my dad’s cheeks, but he wasn’t making a sound. I could see his leather jacket had blood and mud on it. It was ruined. I wondered why he hadn’t taken it off before picking Buster up. Mr. Winter kept starting to talk, but my dad wasn’t listening. He was just looking at Buster and stroking his head. Mr. Winter was finally quiet. Then my Dad said, “Okay,” and carried Buster into the backyard.

“Kath—I’m sorry,” Dad said to me as he caught my eye. I walked up to him, and we hugged Buster between us. Then, Mr. Winter and I followed him behind the house. Standing in front of my mom’s garden Dad said, “Buster always ate the tomatoes off the vine as soon as they ripened.” With tears still on his face, but with a slight smile, he said, “You ever hear of a vegetarian dog before, Mr. Winter?” He laid Buster on the grass, next to the garden.

Buster looked weird. Mr. Winter didn’t run over him. He hit his brakes when he saw Buster dash out. He just kind of bumped him, but still, here was Buster, dead. It looked like Buster was lying on the grass sleeping, except he was so still. Maybe if I was a farm kid I’d be used to this stuff. That is what my grandma is always saying. She says we miss out. We wouldn’t need sex ed in school if we had baby lambs every spring. We wouldn’t be so queasy if we grew up with life and death and sex like she did. Maybe she’s right. But if life on the farm is all about watching animals die, I’d prefer to remain ignorant.

As I stood there I found myself getting angry, but I just watched and listened. I could feel something coming up from deep down inside me. My vision blurred with tears. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Winter. “Bury him in the tomatoes. It is a fitting tribute.”

Dad went to the garage for a shovel. I watched as Mr. Winter pulled up the tomato plants by hand and took them to his garden. For a minute I was alone with Buster. I whispered his name, hoping he’d wake up. I knelt down and stroked his neck.

Dad came back and starting digging. He was quiet. So was I. Mr. Winter returned and was silent also. Finally Dad said, “I guess that’s deep enough.” He stepped back and looked at me. I kept petting Buster.

“We’ve got to bury him now, Kathy.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until everybody is here?”

“No. We need to get it done. Now is the right time. We can’t wait.”

I could feel the blood rush to my head as I stood up, challenging him: “Why not? That’s stupid. He’s not going anywhere.” My voice was getting louder. “It can wait a couple of hours. You just want to get rid of him.” Then I threw up in the hole he had just dug and ran into the house crying.

Dad found me in the living room, curled up on the couch, sobbing. He sat down next to me and started scratching my back. “Are you okay?” I was silent. Then he said, “We’ll wait. You’re right. There is no hurry. I’m sorry.”

I looked up to see that Mr. Winter had followed Dad in and was standing nearby. He said, “Buster was a noble spirit. He must surely have gone to the dog Valhalla.”

Now that made me really mad, but I was exhausted. I whispered in disgust, “Valhalla! The Viking heaven for drinking and whoring! There is no such place. Heaven is heaven and Jesus is God. Not Oden or Thor. And it is for people, not dogs! We’ll never see Buster again.” I looked him right in the eye: “You killed him.”

Sometimes whispering is louder for the lack of volume. He hung on my every word.Then he hung his head and left.

Okay. It was a little over the top. But I was kind of freaked out, and Mr. Winter just makes me mad. That was a stupid thing to say. Buster had a personality. He was unique. He had favorite foods and toys and places to lie in the sun. And he loved us. But he didn’t have a soul and he didn’t have a Savior.

Buster died not just because Mr. Winter hit him, but because Adam and Eve sinned in the garden. We introduced death: me, my Dad, Mr. Winter, Adam and Eve, even you. All of creation suffers and dies because we are all sinners. Jesus Christ redeemed the world by suffering death in our place. All of us who believe in Him will go to heaven. But dogs still die. People are still mean.The world is still chaotic and unpredictable.

It makes me sad that I’ll never stroke Buster’s tummy again or scratch behind his ears. He wasn’t perfect, but he was a good dog. I miss him, but Buster was just a dog. It is not like I lost a person. And I am sure that Dad and Mr. Winter were just coping in their own way.

But there is something wrong with death. It hurts. It is not natural. It was not meant to be. I can’t wait for the time when it will end and Jesus Christ will complete the good work He has begun in us, for the time when dogs and grandmas don’t die and neighbors love one another as neighbors should.

Mr. Winter is doing his best. He is even supplying us with tomatoes, more, in fact, than we’ve ever had before. But what nobody knows is that I taught and encouraged Buster to eat tomatoes—so that I wouldn’t have to. Now I have to.

Kathy Luder loves high fantasy and Johann Sebastian Bach. She spends a lot of Sunday afternoons at the movies at University Park Mall in Mishawaka, Indiana. You can e-mail Kathy about most anything at kathyluder@hotmail.com but you can’t bribe her with food or drink.