It’s ringing, and there’s this flash of hope that no one will answer, but of course, someone does. I explain that I’m very sorry, I’ve found their dog, and unfortunately he’s passed away.
“I knew this would happen one day,” she says. “He’s a runner. I tried everything; our electric fence was new and it still wasn’t working. But yeah, I knew; the police called me this morning. Are you at the police station?”
Apparently he had been dead for hours, and the police called her that morning to let her know. She was under the impression they were taking him and she would be able to go get his body later night, but they either hadn’t done it yet or weren’t planning to after all, and she was heart broken to hear he was still laying where he died. While I was on the phone, she tried to figure out what to do.
“Maybe my neighbor can take me,” she mused. “I can’t imagine going to get him myself.” I advised her to not, and tried to tell her, gently, that he was tough to look at.
She then kept me on the phone while she told me her buddy’s entire life story, while I “mmm-hmmd” and made sympathetic sounds and shrugged at Marley who likely saw the rest of his life stretching out before him in that moment, a series of running late and making detours for hurt things that need me. I think she concluded that she’d get someone to go with her, and I agreed she had made a good decision. I don’t remember her name, but I’ll think about her a lot for a really long time.