One of our dogs crossed the rainbow bridge this week. Sophie, our little Chiweenie, has been slowly failing for a while, so it wasn’t unexpected. That doesn’t mean that it was easy.

By accident or design, I have become Mother Reaper; the person in our family who oversees our dogs’ final moments. Whether it is an accident, a medical event, or a planned euthanasia, I have tended to our canines’ end of life. It’s a heartbreaking responsibility for a pet owner. Fortunately, with sweet Sophie, it was smooth sailing navigated with tears and incredible support from the Lake Placid Animal Hospital staff.

Not every send-off has been so easy. One dog stayed on a shelf in our basement freezer for months while we waited for the ground to thaw. Even though he was secured in a box, no one would open the freezer door. Ice cream and other frozen delights became a negotiation. “I’ll do the dishes if you bring the ice cream upstairs,” each kid would offer. As a result, I barely washed the dishes that winter.

On the weekends the conversations would go like this: “I’m hungry.”

“Why don’t you grab a pizza from the freezer?”

“Oh, I’m not that hungry.”

Abominable snowman? Frosty Cujo? I never could figure out what they envisioned springing from the icy shelves.

The most awkward doggie end was almost 20 years ago. Our newfie-lab mix Freya was struggling with cancer, and we knew the time had come. Bill dug a hole the night before. Our vet came to the house to euthanize Freya. The plan was for me to bury her before our young children came home with Bill.

The actual procedure went smoothly, and Freya peacefully passed. And although I ugly cried, it was the calm respectful end I had hoped for.

As he packed up, our vet asked, “Are you okay? Are you all alone?” In my emotional moment, I mistook compassion for creepiness.

So, I lied. “My neighbor is waiting next door. He is coming over to help.”

Reassured, our vet left, leaving me with a corpse the size of a small black bear.

I had never considered how easy it is to pick up an active animal versus a dead one. It quickly became obvious that I couldn’t carry her to the waiting grave, so I grabbed the wheelbarrow. After a bit of a struggle, and a lot more ugly crying I managed to flop her in.

My load wasn’t centered, and as we went around back, I hit a bump. Everything toppled over: wheelbarrow on its side, large dead dog spilling out. By this time, I was a wreck: bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down my face, my clothes streaked with saliva and blood (from Freya’s tumor). This was also the precise moment a car pulled into the driveway.

It was a student, Wyatt, and his mom. Wyatt got out of the car. He was frantic because he had forgotten to turn in his earth science labs. They were due that day, he explained. Could I help him contact his teacher? Any observant person would have been concerned by my appearance, but 13-year-old boys are oblivious.

Conscious of the mishap out back, and not wanting to upset the boy, I brought him into the house to find his teacher’s number in the phone book. Glancing up, I realized the body was visible out the back window. Determined to block Wyatt’s view, I stood in front of the window, reciting the number and pointing across the room to the phone. When he couldn’t locate the receiver, I stayed rooted in place, practically yelling directions. Once again teenage boy oblivion came through, and he didn’t act as if this was odd behavior. He contacted his science teacher and with his situation solved, Wyatt left.

My situation, however, was still unresolved, and my family would be home soon. With a herculean effort, I righted the dog and barrow, only to have the whole thing tip over in the other direction. Weighing my options, I grabbed a blue tarp, rolled poor Freya on it, and dragged her across the lawn. Unceremoniously, I dumped her in the waiting grave and shoveled dirt in, finishing just as Bill and the kids arrived home.

What began as a peaceful goodbye, ended up being a dark comedy of errors. My takeaway was that it’s much harder to move a dead body than a live one. Considering my struggles with a canine corpse, I would never make it as a murderer. Gratefully, this lesson was learned in the early years of marriage. Although I’d like to believe it was my moral code and my love for Bill, not this experience, that has kept my husband safe all these years.