My sister, Connie, passed last year. We later spread her ashes on a grassy hill overlooking Butte, Montana. She and her husband, Tony, moved to Butte something over twenty years ago.
Connie loved Butte. She loved the authentic but proud people living
in Butte. She particularly enjoyed her
Granite Street home and the Painted Lady Victorian homes around her.
Two days ago, Tony and I took
Connie’s four dogs for a walk. Their
final walk.
Seamus.
Max.
Phoenix.
Boogie.
Each of these dogs—some
together—shared the house with Connie.
Each had their own stories. Some
tragic. All loving. Phoenix outlived Connie by a few months.
With sober purpose, Tony and I walked
to the crest of the same open hill where the ashes of my big sister were spread. I carried Max and Boogie.
Boogie was my favorite—a sweet
collie mix who always sought me out and, more or less, fell against me as an expression
of fondness.
There on the hill, with a fleet
of blue mountains surrounding us, with Butte below us and filling her streets
with shiny cars, with cured grasses wavering around our ankles, we spread the
ashes of the dogs. I put Boogie out
first.
Ashes to ashes, my boy.
Dogs to dust.
—Mitchell Hegman
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