From the Desk of The DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank

Never let them see you sweat and NEVER let them see you cry! Advice to live by, words to swear to, and yes, a personal oath to be kept. But life is seldom without exceptions, and outliers have a way of altering currents.

Recently in a discussion about the value of professional therapy, I stated that I have elected to deal with my demons as they escape. I prefer my demons to be packed and suppressed, deep inside, with no exodus in sight. But as you may have ascertained by reading between these opening lines, the creator of these words follows this exact line of thought.

I’ve buried my parents, without tears. I buried Mama Leake, my wonderful GrandMother, without a tear. Uncles and Aunts dear to me, are gone with no tears shed. Mrs. Willa Lee, a former educator passed and I didn’t attend because I didn’t know how, and through my shame, I learned that even in death, Mrs. Lee was still teaching me about living. Then there was one; the one that I cowardly snuck into the back after the service started and left before it ended, and later, I allowed a tear or two to fall and I was haunted by her, but I was still in my youth and lacked the necessary tools to allow the world to see my sorrow.

Today, just two days shy of my 61^st birthday, having poured more than three glasses of Maker’s, I am doing all that I can to address my latest loss. For on this day, the 15^th day of October, in the year of our LORD, 2024, I laid Loretta Lynn Bracey to rest. Between 5:00 AM this morning and 5:30 AM, I busied myself with the prep work to get Loretta to the vet, but by 5:30, no physician would not be necessary.

I gathered tools and an LED headlight and selected a spot. I drew the adze back past my side and circled over my shoulders and in one motion, I swung it into the hard, drought-stricken, Mississippi dirt. It’s been a dry summer and the Mississippi red clay is as hard as concrete. I chopped with the adze and I jumped on the shovel and I drove the post-hole digger downward into the ground with all my might. Except for a couple of short breaks, I dug for over 2 hours. Loretta was a muscular and stocky Pit Bull mix and weighed between 65 and 70 pounds, so the hole I dug had to be large and over 3 feet deep. I’d be late for work this day I knew, but I was a man with a task to perform, one In which I placed high importance, one that had to be done right.

Over the years, I’ve buried several cats and dogs here on my property, but this one; this one took a toll. I selected a spot between a young pine and a cypress that I set out last spring, leaving room for the next grave when the time comes. As I worked, I envisioned a nice place there with some timbers laid as a border and gravel on top, and maybe a bird bath and a bench to come later. When my work was done, I placed her gently in the hole, wrapped in a quilt, with her head to the West, just like humans. Methodically and without a tear, I covered her body and that, as they say, was that.

I dreaded driving home. I knew that Betty Wright Bracey was alone. Alone, licking her wounds from the fight with the predatory cougar that took Loretta’s life, and like me, grieving. For years, my dogs have spent most nights in my bar room, man cave. I join them most evenings and while I listen to music, write, and sip on bourbon, they settle in and accept whatever attention I give them. In the burial process, I treated Loretta as a human, a member of the family, because that is what she was. I consumed my ice cream, and for Betty, I brought leftover smoked pork tenderloin. We ate, and then, I busied myself with anything I could think of to hold off the inevitable.

I parked myself at my computer and opened a blank page. I took a sip of Maker’s and began pecking at the keys. Two words in, the lump hit my throat and the tears began. Words began to fill the blank screen. Bourbon was poured, music played and I cried the first tears in years, and many of those suppressed demons I mentioned earlier fought to escape. I wrote. I cried. I loved on Betty, and I sang along with some of the barroom tunes. I was helpless to control it, so I poured another glass, and another after that and I’m so glad that Betty was the only witness.

I noticed movement in my periphery and turned to find Betty standing, gingerly at first, but seemingly summoning strength to stand, to be brave. Betty, with a swollen mouth and many tender spots across her body from the fight, showed me the way. I looked at her and asked her if she needed to go outside. She moved towards the door and I let her out into the light of the full moon. I foolishly told her that I would be there; waiting for her return, as if my assurance meant something to her. It did not, but to me, for my well-being, I needed her to need me this night, so that neither of us had to face grief alone.

Outside, Betty did whatever it was that she was doing and inside, the sound of Bob Dylan singing “A Simple Twist of Fate,”  filled the room. In the first verse, the song goes,

 “she looked at him and he felt a spark, tingle to his bones. ‘Twas then he felt alone.”

Without Loretta, and without Betty for the moment, I felt alone. I felt totally and helplessly alone.

The thought occurred, “These dogs have filled a very large portion of my life now for several years.” For a moment, a shadow of sorrow covered my soul like an eclipse of the Sun and there was nothing that I could do. My mind was blank for a bit, then I heard Bob singing,

“He woke up, the room was bare
He didn’t see her anywhere
He told himself he didn’t care
Pushed the window open wide
Felt an emptiness inside…”

“Emptiness,” I thought, “Emptiness is the correct adjective, for nothing does it better.” I regarded my state at the moment and felt no shame. I had my cry and now I will begin the march. The march over whatever measure of time it takes for the pain of loss to subside. Rest easy, Loretta Lynn Bracey.

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