g out Elias’s cottage, Michael stumbled upon an old, leather-bound journal tucked away in a dusty drawer. It was Elias’s, filled with his neat, spidery handwriting. Most of it was mundane, observations about the weather or local gossip. But near the end, there was an entry dated just a few days before Elias’s death.
October 17th. Elias had written. Buster found my old, lucky silver dollar today. Wouldn’t let it go. Tried to bury it in the garden, but I managed to swap it out for that squeaky rubber chicken he loves so much. He’s always burying things. It makes me wonder… if I ever go, what will he bury with me? Or what will he try to dig up?
Michael frowned, a strange premonition forming in his mind. He continued to flip through the pages, and then, near the very last entry, he found a small, folded note, tucked carefully into the spine. It was addressed to him.
Michael, it began, If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Don’t worry about Buster. He’s a good dog. And a very particular one. There’s something I need to tell you about the burial. I made a small, personal request of the undertaker, Mr. Abernathy. It was important to me, for Buster’s sake.
Michael’s heart pounded. He remembered Mr. Abernathy, the portly, slightly flustered man from the funeral.
You know how Buster loves his squeaky toys, especially ‘Mr. Squeakers,’ the one with the missing eye? He’s had it since he was a pup. It’s seen better days, but he still carries it everywhere. Well, I decided… it was time for Mr. Squeakers to go on one last adventure. I asked Mr. Abernathy to place it inside the coffin with me, right beside my hand. I know it sounds silly, but I have a feeling Buster will know. He’ll sense it. He’ll probably try to dig it up. Don’t stop him. Let him have his little quest. It’s his way of saying goodbye, I think. Or maybe, his way of getting his favorite toy back.
Michael stared at the note, then at the viral photo on his phone, a slow, dawning realization washing over him. The internet was wrong. Buster wasn’t mourning in the human sense, not in the way they imagined. He wasn’t trying to unearth his beloved master. He was trying to unearth his beloved toy.
He drove back to the cemetery, a strange mix of amusement and profound understanding settling over him. He watched Buster, still diligently pawing at the earth, his tail giving a tiny, almost imperceptible wag with each hopeful scratch. Buster wasn’t heartbroken; he was determined. He was on a mission. His loyalty wasn’t expressed through passive grief, but through active, persistent, utterly canine pursuit of a cherished possession.
Michael never publicly corrected the internet’s narrative. The story of Lari, the loyal, grieving dog, was too powerful, too comforting for millions. But he knew the truth. And sometimes, when he visited Elias’s grave, he’d bring a new, equally squeaky toy for Buster, and watch as the little dog, after a moment of intense sniffing at the grave, would trot off to find a perfect spot to bury his latest treasure, perhaps dreaming of the day he’d dig it up again. The hole truth, it turned out, was far more wonderfully, comically, and uniquely canine than anyone had ever imagined.
