In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Dobby the House Elf perishes while saving Harry Potter and his friends. Dobby, more than anything, wanted to be a friend to Harry Potter. Harry, so grief-stricken, buries Dobby with his own hands instead of using a simple spell. The manual labor of digging a grave and placing his friend inside made the moment more personal and heartfelt. The laborious task of shoveling through thick dirt was an act of love and a process to deal with grief.
A little over six years ago, my family pleaded with me to get a dog. I was against the idea at first. The main reason I didn’t want a dog was that I knew who would be the one to do most of the caretaking, despite how much my family bargained. I grew up with dogs and loved them, so I eventually was worn down and agreed to get a dog.
My family looked through photos from a local animal rescue organization with little input from me, then focused on a dog that had ears that stuck far out from his head. My kids’ mom laughed at the ears and said they reminded her of Dobby the Elf. A few days later, we picked Dobby up and brought him to his new home.
At first, everyone lived up to the bargain. The kids chipped in with feeding and walking him and cleaned up after him. The efforts eventually wore off, and not only did I look after Dobby while the kids were at school, but I took care of him in the evenings.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but Dobby became my friend. I do most of my writing at the kitchen table, and Dobby would sit by my feet and lay his head on my foot. If I moved, he would let out a groan. In the evening, he sat next to me on the couch while I watched TV.
He was also therapeutic. During Covid, while the rest of the world was shutting down, he was a source of comfort during the hard days. As my family changed and stresses and pressures mounted, Dobby stayed by my side. By telling him he was going to be okay, I was telling myself. When schools opened up again, I would sit on the floor after dropping my kids off, and Dobby and I would have a meeting of the minds, as our foreheads touched and I stroked his sides. Those morning meetings were meditation moments.
Dobby slept in my oldest daughter’s bed, and he would run to her bed in the evenings when I got up from the couch to go to bed. One evening, like any other, I stood up and said goodnight to Dobby, and he jumped off the couch to make his way downstairs. When I got out of the bathroom, I noticed he was looking at the ground and swaying. I ran to him and placed him in my lap as I tried to talk him out of his trance. Knowing his love of cheese, I grabbed a slice from the kitchen and pinched off a piece. I placed it below his nose, and he ate a bite. I then fed him the rest of the cheese. I told my daughter how Dobby was acting, and he jumped into her bed. He had his checkup last summer, and I didn’t think there was an immediate problem, so I told my daughter I would take him to the vet in the morning. Around 4 AM, my daughter knocked on my bedroom door and said Dobby was acting funny. When I saw him, he was back in a trance and not even a piece of cheese could snap him out of it. We wrapped him in a blanket and drove to the animal ER.
I scooped him up out of the backseat, and his head lay across my shoulder. We walked into the ER, and I placed him on the couch while my daughter stayed by his side. A doctor saw us and ran over and picked him up. I filled out papers and sat next to my daughter and tried to comfort her. A few years ago, the two of us sat inside a pet ER and said goodbye to her cat. Here we were again.
We were invited to go back into a room, and a vet walked in to speak with us. She informed us that Dobby’s heart was hard to hear, which meant there was some sort of rupture. She asked me what I wanted to do if his heart stopped. Trying to resuscitate him meant it would cost another $600. I told her to do it.
And then we waited some more.
The doctor walked into the room and told us that our beloved dog had died. An employee brought him and placed him on the table. I was touched by the employee’s sympathy as she kissed Dobby on his forehead and told us how sorry she was. She closed the door behind her while my daughter and I looked down at our boy. We both cried as we petted him, and I placed my arm around my daughter’s shoulder. I attempted to be stoic at first, but I couldn’t hold it in. I cried hard. It was impossible to hold anything in.
I was asked to sign some papers and had to leave the room. I was given some information about cremation or other ways the hospital disposed of pets. As I scanned the paper, I saw an option that we could take him home for burial. I asked about that option and was told that as long as I dug a grave that was 4 feet deep, I could do that. That was the option I chose.
I walked back into the room, and my daughter and I tightly wrapped Dobby up and I carried him back to the car and placed him in the back seat. My daughter and I cried the whole way home. I badly wanted to wake up from the nightmare.
We were lucky to find a parking spot on our street, and once again lifted Dobby up. He was heavier, and it was a struggle. I feared I might drop him, causing more trauma to my daughter’s day. A neighbor was out walking her dog, and I wasn’t in the mood for any chitchat, and I walked by her, knowing she would forgive me for my rudeness when she heard the story later.
My daughter opened the door, and we stepped over his toys to find a place to put him down. Without thinking, I placed him on the floor by the dining room table, where he often slept while I wrote.
The two younger kids came over, and we gathered around our pup. We cried as we sat next to him. School was about to start, but I gave the kids the option of staying home, which they did. I carried him into the backyard and placed him on our picnic table and shoveled his grave.
I am a terrible judge of depth and distance. As I dug, I figured it would take no time at all to dig a 4-foot grave. I was wrong. After digging 2 feet, I figured I had to be close. When I realized I had two more to go, I exhaled slowly. My 14-year-old son offered to help dig and took a turn. My oldest daughter chose a large stone in the backyard to be his headstone and painted it, while my 10-year-old daughter painted rocks we found during the dig. My son needed a break, and I took over once again. Finally, after a long day of digging, I had a 4-foot hole.
It was late in the afternoon, and Dobby had been dead for hours. His body was no longer soft, but straight and rigid. The family gathered around his body to pet him one last time. My 10-year-old wanted to see his stumpy tail one more time, and I lifted the blanket for her to see. The motionless tail hit me hard. I tried to stifle my emotions, but they overflowed. I stepped away and turned my back because I knew I was delivering an ugly cry. My son walked over to me and hugged me tightly. Soon, my girls were hugging me as well. I was supposed to be the one comforting my kids, but there they were supporting me.
I picked up my boy for the last time and carried him to the grave. I jumped inside and lowered him down. I peeled back the blanket and gave him a final scratch behind his ears. After climbing out, we tossed letters we had written to him and said our goodbyes. As I tossed dirt on his body, an overwhelming sense of guilt flooded over me. I asked myself if he would still be alive if I had taken him to the vet right away instead of in the morning. I apologized profusely as I filled up the grave. We placed my daughter’s colorful stones on top of the pile of dirt and situated the headstone. My youngest made some final decorations, and we placed flowers by his headstone.
In the Harry Potter book, it doesn’t get into it that much why he dug the grave for Dobby. Throughout the day, though, there was comfort in the manual labor that went into digging our Dobby’s grave. We had a purpose. My son and I dug while my girls decorated. The act of doing something helped us deal with the overwhelming grief. In the book and in life, digging was more than an act of love for a friend; it was also a therapeutic way to handle the grieving process.
I let my 10-year-old daughter sleep in my bed that night. Through tears, she said, “It’s going to be different without Dobby.” I agreed. I told her that old saying that everyone loves to say to someone who is grieving, that, “Time heals all wounds.” As I said it, I took it back and told her that time is more of a Band-Aid and that there is always going to be a scar, but that time helps deal with strong emotions.
Throughout the day, I was reminded not only of the love that I had for Dobby, but how much I love my kids. Even though we were going through a terrible day, I felt as though it was bringing all of us closer together. There was no arguing and no fighting. We cared about each other’s feelings and talked to one another in loving ways. Hugs were passed around in bulk. Everyone had the same mission: help each other grieve.
In the days that followed, the level of grief lessened. The hardest moments were when I would open the door and nobody was there to greet me. Dobby always jumped around whenever I entered the house with his little stubby tail wagging profusely, regardless of how long I had been gone. He was always excited to see me. Then one day, I dropped a French fry on the ground. Usually, when I dropped a piece of food, I would inform Dobby that there was something for him. My initial reaction to the dropped food was to call out to him, but the lonely fry looked up at me. I bent down and picked it up, with grief once again rising in my chest.
The dining room table once again became my writing place, and even now, I am not yet used to not having a dog leaning against my leg. I realized Dobby had also been my writing buddy, whom I would pet and talk to between thoughts. I missed talking to my dog, and I missed our mornings, so I bought a bench to place next to his grave. When the weather warms, I’ll have a new morning meditation spot.
The more I talk about Dobby to other men, the more stories I hear about dads that didn’t want a dog, but fell in love once a dog arrived. I’m in that group. I’m not sure what it is about us guys that don’t want one more thing to love, but so glad when we get one. The day after Dobby died, someone told me I should get a new dog right away. I shook my head and said, “I can’t imagine getting another dog right now.” And I can’t. But I’m not closing the pet-owning door. When the time is right, I’ll once again open up my home for a new dog. Dobby rescued me after my family rescued him. Maybe one day soon another double rescue will happen again.
