Some of the holes I dug in our yard were to plant live Christmas trees. Buying live trees seemed a good idea and the one we planted in front of the house is now at least 20 feet tall. Unfortunately, two others didn’t fare as well. While they were fairly alive when Santa came, they were less so by the time they reached their backyard destinations. On the bright side, their skeletons now support thriving berry bushes.

Once I start digging in the yard, I always wonder how deep I need to go to find Indian stuff. I figure at least a few Lenape passed over, hunted or otherwise visited this spot in 12,000 years before being ousted by the Europeans. Did they bury dogs here too? I sometimes unearth clamshells, but they’re probably from garbage-burying 20th Century owners and not the bounty of ancient Indian expeditions to the Sandy Hook.

We have a good-sized backyard, but it’s almost useless for burying pets. There are obstructions to deep digging. The best place to inter bigger animals is a patch next to the house. It has good dirt but it’s small. Nevertheless, I was amazed during a cat funeral when my shovel revealed a plastic bag containing a feline buried years earlier. Can’t remember if I double-stacked them, but that would’ve been sensible.

I’m bound to this old money-pit. It’s creaky and crooked. It needs expensive repairs. So what’s the draw? Well, aside from raising a family here, we’ve buried in the yard four good-natured dogs. When mowing, I sometimes think about their bones below me. I remember how a couple followed the tractor as it went around and how old Guinness, the sweetest Doberman ever, would move sticks out of my way if I asked. They seemed happy to be here with us.