It is no longer a secret that last weekend, my grandfather backed over the family dog with his truck. To be fair, it was entirely an accident and he feels terrible. My grandfather feels terrible, that is, not the dog. The dog probably felt pretty bad at the time, but it’s a she. Was a she.

Lest you think me totally cold-hearted and without feeling, I assure you I am really sorry it happened. The twins were upset, my grandfather was upset, and Brian was especially torn up about the whole thing, since she belonged more to him than anyone else. But, let’s face it, I am a little bit cold-hearted and lack most feelings, so when I heard the news, I was consumed more with a sense of irony than sadness. I love animals, but I’m mostly sad because my family’s sad, not because Frieda met her untimely death under the back tires of a pickup. Yikes. Sorry, Mom.

Frieda was a black lab with a tip of white at the end of her tail, so Brian wanted to name her after a female painter. I suggested “Georgia,” but he went in a different direction. You’ve really got to shout “Frieda” in a loud, hillbilly accent to get the full scope of the name. Anyway… She was an energetic puppy when she first came to live at the house, and the twins hated being around her. She would jump and lick and smack the bajesus out of you with her tail, as labs are wont to do, so she spent nearly all of her indoors time kenneled in the basement. It frustrated me that no one took the time to socialize her, take her for walks, or even let her wander around the house. The few times one of these opportunities presented itself, she got so excited that it was rarely repeated. It struck me as unjust, but she wasn’t my dog and I didn’t live there anymore, so I mostly kept my mouth shut. More to the point, she was Brian’s dog, and I wasn’t about to suggest an alternative training method.

When Mom and Brian separated, I think Frieda actually fared the best out of all of us. Brian moved into an apartment, Mom refused (with good reason) to keep his dog around, and so Frieda went to live with my grandfather. Frieda was a sweet dog and loved people—despite her rather antisocial upbringing—so Papa was happy to take her. He’s got acres and acres of farmland with chickens, ponds, and myriad smelly things to roll around in. It’s dog heaven. Note, that’s not an offhanded metaphor.

Because, the thing is, pets don’t last long on Papa’s farm. Where some parents might use the “she went to live on a beautiful farm” lie to pacify their children after a pet’s sudden death or disappearance, in our family when pets “go to the farm,” it’s the God’s honest truth. Papa’s farm is kind of the Island of Misfit Toys for pets, though. When Kris’s cats became incontinent, they went to the farm. When the twins were born, our elderly newfie went to the farm. When Frieda got lost in the divorce, she went to the farm. No doubt, the place is hazardous—there are tractors and hawks, coyotes and lead-footed rednecks, any number of which wouldn’t hesitate to take out a dog or cat. But even with all of that, I still think Sam, Phoebe, Belle, and Frieda were all better off living out their later years on Papa’s farm. His place is kind of like the anti-zoo where domesticated house pets are returned to their more natural habitat. They’re free to roam, chase voles, and swim in the ponds; and they get tons of attention from Papa.

It’s just sad that Papa has to be the unfortunate one to deliver the news of their demise each and every time. I know he doesn’t enjoy the grim task at all, but he’s incredibly well-suited for it. He grew up on a farm and has a hardened, Shrute-like mentality when it comes to the death of animals. He can fire off a detailed description of roadkill over breakfast without batting an eye. He is imbued with a strong love for and connection with nature and appreciates every aspect of life, including the messy bits. He doesn’t shy away from death, and frequently regales his family with his daily findings, be they fox droppings, lawn-mower-slaughtered snake bits, or a hawk circling over the soybean fields. One of my all-time, greatest-hits Papa stories ended with the words, “pools of blood and fecal matter.” At the time, it was all I could do to keep a straight face as I goaded him into telling me whether these were multiple pools of a mixture of the two substances, or, indeed, two distinct pools—one of blood and the other of fecal matter. For the record, it was the latter. To wit, Papa’s facebook status on July 9 was: “Fluffy, one of the missing cats showed up again. Ginger is still missing but the hair in the coyote scat may be from the fawn remains I found yesterday and not from Ginger. Good luck Ginger!”

Gotta love the man.

Frieda was a good dog; may she rest in peace.