Losing a pet is a serious thing, whether by natural or other means. A violent end produces sorrow at once and owners are surprised at how much emotional pain there is when a pet passes away.

I grieved more when I was a preteen. Poor old Riley. Poor old Mike. Poor old Leo. After the last one, we didn’t get any more dogs. My parents grew as tired of grief as I did. And on occasion, we had too many cats. But that’s another story.

When my older brother got married, he had two girls, Annette and Marie, right off the bat. They were adorable (still are). I had fun playing the indulgent uncle. It was flattering to have two little girls look up to me. Their happy-go-lucky Uncle Eddie. I treasure the memories.

We played our roles as if preordained. So when an issue came up one summer Sunday, we reacted as expected.

My nieces came to visit and, later that day, learned their father’s coon dog, Old Duke, got run over by a car. It distressed them something terrible. They sat on a couch opposite my chair and cried softly.

“Poor Old Duke.”

“Poor Old Duke.”

“Got runned-ovar”

“Got runned-ovar.”

They cried some more.

“Uncle Eddie? Will Old Duke go to Heaven?”

I was sitting there drinking beer, this being Sunday.

“Well, I’m not sure. But if there’s a dog heaven, he’ll be there.”

They cried some more.

Surely, they understand us

I remembered the times I cried and wondered why pets had to die. They have personalities of their own. We share our lives with them and make them comfortable.

An old coat as a mattress on the floor, or a flannel shirt in a basket if a cat. Or they sleep at the foot of the bed. A bowl for regular and a bowl for dry food. A water dish. Toys. Leashes and collars. Slippers to chew on. Sweaters for cold weather. A gaily decorated dunce hat for birthday parties. Our darn cat won’t sit still for the camera.

They act as if they understand English. Beg. Fetch. Go get ’em. Down, boy. Where did you put it? I said, stop barking. You had enough. Get me a piece of meat out of the fridge. What was that phone number? I lead a dog’s life. Want to go to the vet? Sure you do. I ain’t getting out of this chair again. Bill collector – sic him!

My nieces looked up.

“Uncle Eddie … why are you crying?” They were amazed.

Between sobs I answered, “You’re so sad, it’s making me sad.”

Annette and Marie walked over and started petting me on the shoulder.

‘There, there, Uncle Eddie. It will be all right. There, there.”

They kissed me on each cheek. Boy, I love them so.

Edward M. Turner is a freelance writer living in Biddeford who has published stories, essays and poems. His novel, “Rogues Together,” won the 2002 Eppies Award for best in action/adventure.