Aftercare
- Aug 23, 2019
- 4 min read
by Mike Holland
I’m what’s known as the DOA Officer. It’s a misnomer; I’m not sworn to uphold the laws regarding animal welfare. What I do is pick up dead animals throughout The County. I drive a pickup truck modified for this purpose that I call the Dead Truck. One of its features is a camper shell so folks won’t see the bodies and carcasses, remains and parts in the back. No one wants to look at this stuff. But that isn’t really true: when I’m on the side of the road loading a dead deer, without even looking up from my work, I can hear cars slow down, some to a crawl, to look. Death provokes curiosity the same way the flame of a candle does, but getting too close to either makes us recoil. Death is The Afterlife, rather than part of life.
It’s something for later.
I recover raccoons dead of distemper, squirrels, skunks, birds; deer dead from Bottlejaw, coyotes, possums, foxes, goats, cats hit by cars. For them it’s not dignified. They can’t present themselves as they were. But they’re past caring and they are not in pain. I was trained by Malia, a rancher and a barrel racer, a formidable woman and a knockout blonde who took no crap from anyone: a by-God Cowgirl, at home handling livestock dead or alive. She would winch the deer into the truck bed, one right over the last, so at the end of the day we’d have to clean out all the leaked blood and feces. One day she was winching a doe into the truck and she knotted a garbage bag over the head. “Is that out of respect for the deer?” I asked. “No. It’s to keep the fluids from leaking out of its mouth into my truck.” Now that the job is mine, every animal gets its own bag. Not just over the head, but a large black plastic envelope: a body bag if you must.
In this job you’d have to be a little crazy not to think about death. Life and death. Makes me appreciate being alive. I know how fragile it is and I know how quick it can cease. I have three daughters and I wish they could see through my eyes a little: they’d be more careful. I wish people would keep their cats indoors.
So I’m going to tell you about something. Insider stuff. You may decide you don’t want to call me to your house and I’ll understand. Because this is stuff I try to do for everyone I can, not just for you.
I’m radio dispatched, and every so often get a call to pick up an “owned, dead dog” at a residence. On arrival, I always take a breath and get ready to help the family. A few don’t really care, but everyone else this happens to is in a state. Their state. Different states. Some feel deep loss; some feel shame their dog is old and stinky; some don’t know what to do with the body; some worry about other family members; some are worried he may leak; lots don’t know how to engage with a death, they say to their kids: “don’t touch!”
A few are good with the death of their pet. The enlightened few who’ve walked the last mile side by side with their dog.
When I go in the house and meet the family I always bring the paperwork. I ask where we can sit and fill it out. I get their info then ask what is the dog’s name. What breed is he. What color is he. Notice I’m asking in the present tense; unbeknownst to them, we’ve just begun a ceremony and we haven’t come to the part yet where they relinquish him. By the time we’ve filled out the form, I’ve told them about my German Shepherd, Frank, who’s been gone five years, who I held as the Vet Tech injected him. I tell them how I felt the life leave him as I crooned in his ear. How I still can’t bear to have another dog. They know now that I understand how they feel, and they’re more at home, in their home, with their dog. Usually they tell a sweet story about their dog. Sometimes we all just sit in the kitchen swapping dog stories for awhile. It can be a wonderful time.
At last it’s time for me to look at the dog. I ask permission and we go out to the garage or bedroom. Almost always the animal is covered with a blanket. I ask if I can look, and turn back the blanket from his face. Again, almost always, the expression on the face is calm. I look the people in the eyes and tell them their dog went easy, that there are a lot worse ways to go, that they don’t have to torture themselves worrying. I pet him, unhurriedly caressing the head, telling them what a beautiful dog he is, how well-cared-for. Often the people will follow suit, sometimes even encouraging their kids to give the dog a goodbye pat. To me, this is the crucial part of the ceremony. The farewell.
Finally I explain I’m going to put him in a bag, and ask if they’d like to have a private moment with him first. Afterwards, when they’re out of the room I put the remains in a large black plastic bag and carry them out to the truck with dignity and respect. I never stack them: they have their own place.
Mike Holland worked as an Animal Control Officer for the city and county of San Francisco. For eight years he was part of a team that responded 24/7 to calls about aggressive dogs, hit-by-cars, cats in fan belts, and cruelty prosecutions defined as “willfully and maliciously causing death or injury of an animal.” After having three daughters with wife, Claudia, the family moved 20 miles north to Marin County where Mike got a job driving the “Dead Truck.” Lots of wildlife there, and lots of cars that run over them. An acquaintance with death became a job skill he could use to help guide folks through the loss of their pet.
