He knew that, while the Terhunes were alive, thousands of persons had come to Sunnybank and had had expressly asked to see Ladâs grave. Bert Terhune always had professed amazement that so many visitors would care to see a dogâs grave.
Once Terhune stood at the grave with an Army general who had expressed the wish to see it. To Terhuneâs surprise and apparent embarrassment, the general bared his head. âBut after all, he was only a dog,â Terhune said. The general solemnly replied, âSir, he was a brave soldier.â
Terhune wrote: âWhy folds should make pilgrimages to the grave of a dead dog is beyond my understanding. But come they do: and some of them bring sheaves of roses and others weep - this for an animal they never saw in life.â
Yes, Terhune, you really did know why, you did understand, The Visitor thought as he sat there alongside the grave and stuffed his cold hands into his overcoat pockets. You gruff old bastard, with your fake toughness, you understood exactly why they came here and why I come here now and sit like a senile old lady and make a fool of myself, crying in the freezing weather for an animal I never saw. You knew why: Because you made him into some kind of saint, thatâs why. Because you took this collie dog and you told stories about his greatness and goodness and love and eternal loyalty, and with your storytelling skill, you made us - all the thousands or hundreds of thousands or millions of us - you made us actually fall in love with a damn dog! And he became the dog we always wanted to have and never did. Maybe even more than that - maybe he became the friend we always waited to find, or even the brother, or the father. And this authentic-imaginary dog, whose only real interest in life probably was his next bowl of hamburger, this collie dog took hold of us and wonât let go.
And you, Terhune, express wonder that people want to come see a dogâs grave and youâre probably having a hell of a laugh over it, wherever you are, watching me sit here and do my gray-haired weeping. Except that I know you wept, too.
You pretended not to understand why anyone would want to come visit the grave of an animal, but you made sure to bury him right there in that little sun-strewn hollow where he loved to lie when he lived⊠right there alongside the house, so he could keep watching over it and so you could glance out at him every now and again and smile a silent greeting.
You understood, you old fake. You know.
-Irving Litvag, The Master of Sunnybank: A Biography of Albert Payson Terhune.
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