I’ve spent the last eleven years doing upkeep at this cemetery. I’ve witnessed it all: people talking to stones, mourning families, and even people dancing between headstones when they believe no one is looking.
I can’t get over him, though.
The purple-vest-wearing yellow Lab.
He arrives every November 28 at approximately noon. By themselves. Be calm. passes by rows of graves as if he had learned the layout by heart, then proceeds directly through the south gate and pauses at Simon’s.
It’s an antique, navy-style headstone honoring, of all things, a valiant ship’s cat. It reads, “Awarded the Dickin Medal.” However, it is evident that this dog is illiterate.
He merely sits.
For hours.
Sometimes he has a tiny wreath in his mouth, while other times he merely holds a message in a plastic sleeve. Never chew it. Never performs. He simply drops it as if he is aware of its weight.
Last year, I became interested. waited for him to go, then went to open the note.
Only two lines were present.
“You’re still keeping your word. Till the end of our days.
No name. No justification.
The most peculiar aspect, though?
He arrived with a new vest this year. I had never seen one like it. A different patch. a different hue.
So I did some research.
As it happens, that unit was dissolved in 1974.
The goosebumps really came on then. 1974. None of the canines I had ever seen could have been born before then. How was he aware? How could he fulfill a pre-existing commitment?
This year, I made the decision to do more than merely observe. I would go with him. Observe his origins. Obtain some answers, perhaps.
At exactly noon, the yellow Lab, whom I began referring to as “Goldie,” showed up. After giving the area a soft, almost knowing glance, he began to stroll steadily toward Simon’s grave. I didn’t want to startle him, so I stayed well away.
As usual, he paused at the cemetery and took a seat. He was carrying a little, finely crafted wreath of rope this time. With one gentle wag of his tail, he set it down. Then he simply sat, staring at the headstone.
An hour or so later, he got up, turned, and began to walk back the way he had come. I stayed out of the way and followed. He left through the south gate and proceeded along a peaceful residential street, coming to a halt at a modest, tidy home with a white picket fence.
He entered the back fence by a tiny dog door. After waiting for a few minutes, I approached the front door and pressed the bell.
The door was answered by an old woman with soft creases on her face. She said, “Young man, can I help you?”
“Ma’am,” I replied. “I’m from the graveyard. Every year, I watch your dog, Goldie, go to a grave.
Her gaze grew softer. She remarked with a little smile on her lips, “Ah, you’ve seen him.” That’s Goldie. He is a unique boy.
I remarked, “He goes to Simon’s grave.” “The feline of the ship.” However, I don’t get it. He left a note last year. as well as the vest he donned this year. That isn’t logical.
We sat in her comfortable living room after she invited me inside. “Goldie wasn’t always my dog,” she started. He belonged to Liam, my son. In the 1970s, Liam served in the Navy and was assigned to a ship. He introduced me to Simon, the ship’s feline. Simon was a legend and more than simply a cat. He was a hero who consoled the crew and saved lives. Liam cherished him.
She added, her voice a little shaky, “But Liam… he passed away a few years ago.” He was rather young. In addition to telling Goldie stories about Simon, he advised him to continue going to Simon’s grave annually in order to remember. His shadow was always Goldie.
“However, the unit… 1974.” Still perplexed, I said.
Yes, Liam’s unit was dissolved in 1974. However, they made a pledge,” she added. “A pledge to honor Simon’s memory and to keep him in mind.” They promised to go to Simon’s tomb as long as one of them was still alive. In a sense, Goldie is the last of them.
“How is he aware of where to go?” I inquired.
Before he died, Liam had already trained him. He ensured that Goldie was aware of the date and the route. He left behind recordings, maps, and notes. Goldie is incredibly loyal and intelligent.
I remarked, “He wears different vests.”
“Yes,” she replied. Every vest symbolizes a distinct year and memory. Each one was created by Liam using a distinct unit patch. The final one, from Liam’s own unit, was the one he wore this year. It was the last pledge.
I was taken aback. A dog carrying out a promise given to a hero cat by a guy he loved. It was a tale of devotion, affection, and remembering.
I turned to face Goldie as I walked out of her house, who was now sleeping soundly by the window. His eyes were filled with a silent comprehension as he gazed up at me.
This situation teaches us the value of loyalty and the durability of commitments. It concerns the ability of love and memory to surpass time and even species. It’s about how a small act of remembering can have such significance and weight.
I learned from Goldie that loyalty is an action and a commitment rather than just a word. It’s about honoring your commitment, even when no one else is around and the person you promised is no longer there.
It also taught me that the most deep truths may be discovered in even the most bizarre stories.
Never undervalue the strength of a loyal heart, never forget the vows you make, and treasure the memories you have. Year after year, Goldie’s path demonstrates that love and vows can endure despite loss.
Please tell this tale to someone who needs to hear it if it moved you. And please like it if you liked it. Your assistance is greatly appreciated.
