The Eternal Dog

Wandering around the sarcophagus room of the Antayla Archaeological Museum, I was awed by the talent of the carvers and sculptors who decorated the funeral receptacles for the Greek and Roman families. I admired warriors in action, hunters and their dogs chasing a deer or a bear. The warriors were brave and determined or heroic as they either prepared to kill an opponent or meet their death; the hunters and dogs focused on their prey, the prey desperately running away. The sculptors ability to infuse limestone with life and emotions is astounding.

Nowhere in the room is this talent more apparent than on the Sarcophagus of the Mourning Women. Eighteen women, apparently relatives or wives rather than professional mourners, are carved into the sarcophagus, all in deep mourning for the deceased. Somehow the sculptors brought the limestone to life, portraying through facial expression or body posture or the drape of her clothes, the devastation of losing a loved one. I spent a long time admiring and empathizing with the mourners.

Across the room is a small, undecorated sarcophagus. A child, I thought. Then I read the sign above it. The sarcophagus belongs to a dog. Instead of elaborate carvings, the dog's bereaved mistress wrote a poem, inscribed on the sarcophagus:



(It was) Rhodope's happiness

those who play with it called lovely Stephanos as

(This grave) keeps inside the one that death takes suddenly

This is the grave of Dog Stephanos that went away and vanished

Rhodope cried for it and buried it like a human

I, (the) Dog Stephanos, Rhodope caused my grave to be made. 

                    Inscription on a 3rd Century A.D. Sarcophagus for a Dog

                    Translated from Ancient Greek

Rhodope's voice speaks across eighteen centuries to all people who love their dogs and grieve their loss. 

In our married lives, my husband and I have owned (or been owned by) five Beagles: Hund, Argos, Mekko, Sophie and Cooper. As Rhodope did, we played with each of them and thought each one of them handsome or lovely. Hund chased a frisbee; Argos was an excellent soccer player. Mekko loved chasing a ball, but Sophie didn't play a lot. She was a very dignified dog who was Mekko's companion and later taught Cooper who was really the Alpha Beagle in our house. And she enjoyed every minute of being Big Sister to his Little Brother, including being able to get him in trouble by escaping the fence and leading him to a fun romp in the lake.

Like Rhodope, we grieved when Hund, Argos, Mekko and Sophie died. In each case, we felt as if we had lost a family member. And we buried each one of them like a human, in a grave near the house and yard where they lived.

Rhodope speaks across the millennia to everyone who has loved and lost a dog. Each time we've lost a Beagle, another one has come along to fill the empty spot in our hearts. Now we have Cooper.

I hope Rhodope found a Cooper.

Sophie and Mekko

Cooper and Sophie

Cooper and Santa Claus

Our almost-two-year-old Beagle, Cooper, has an issue with Santa Claus—a particular soft stuffed Santa Claus from my late mother-in-law's collection.

Last Christmas was Cooper's first Christmas with us. He had come to live with us in September, a 7-month-old lively, lovable and loving, but untrained, Beagle. My husband and I decorated for Christmas, putting his mother's Santa collection on the dining room table: Santa Claus in a rocking chair; a Santa Claus candy jar and four matching mugs—more ceramic and glass Santas, except for the one soft stuffed Santa with a jingle bell attached to his hat.

Maybe it was the jingle bell that attracted Cooper or the soft texture of the body. For whatever reason, he loved Santa. He'd trot across the dining room table (a forbidden activity), pick up Santa and, head high and tail wagging, hop off the table. Sometimes he'd get to play Humans Chasing Beagle until he dropped Santa; other times, we'd find Santa on the floor, on the sofa or on a chair. Cooper would shake Santa and play with him, but Santa never showed any signs of injury, amazing since Cooper chewed on everything and left holes in everything.

This year, we put the Santas out again. Cooper wasn't interested. Then one evening we came home from visiting our neighbor to find Santa laying on the floor. No injuries, although a piece of velcro was loose.

The next morning, David asked me if Santa was ok. I picked him up, checked the loose velcro and noticed a switch between Santa's feet. I turned it on and Santa began to play "Rudoph the Red Nosed Reindeer," dancing around on the table.

Immediately, Cooper had his paws on the table, looking intently and curiously at the dancing Santa. It stopped; he barked; it started again. It stopped. David clapped. Santa started dancing and playing.

We put Santa on the floor to see what Cooper would do. Cooper was curious, but timid. He barked (which of course started Santa up again) and finally mustered enough courage to creep close enough to Santa to sniff him.

Several hours later, I was in the kitchen when I heard "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." I rounded the corner and saw Cooper standing in the middle of the table, his mouth around Santa, his legs bent for a jump onto the floor. I reprimanded Cooper and retrieved Santa. Before long, I'd hear Santa again. We played the reprimand and retrieval game several times.

Santa is now safely out of Beagle reach.