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Down Below: A True Story

By Mantrid Brizon

It is with much regret that I am forced to write this little tale as a testament to a friend who meant the world to me. It is not a story that I am keen on writing, any more than the events which unfolded. Sadly, however, May 22, 2018 will be burned into my memory forever. I had agreed to help my parents work on a summer home that is in dire need of repair in Eastern Kentucky. The home, which is perched upon Clack Mountain, was once the home of my grandfather on my father's side. He has since passed. In the five years since his death, the home was used by his own relatives, children from a previous marriage. At some point, however, it became a den of vice; drug use and illegal activities of all sorts.

It did not last long, as the local police raided the home and arrested several individuals. The remaining relatives, some of whom seemed the least concerned with my grandfather's death at his funeral, were eventually forcibly evicted. As it turns out, the home was repossessed by the bank, as my grandfather had taken out a substantial mortgage to build an addition for these ingrates. After losing the home to the bank, my father found it for an incredible price and purchased it for himself. Unfortunately, the damage was done. Black mold claimed portions of the ceiling and water damage had warped every wall in the basement. Without anything else to do, I agreed to join them, with my best friend Shane, who happens to also be a dog.

We rode down to Kentucky from a Detroit Michigan suburb, which took quite some time. Arriving at the home where my parents have been storing their RV, which served as a home base as the house is currently unlivable, we unpacked and settled in. Several days went by and everything was fine. In between serious work, we went for walks, took time to target practice with our firearms, and watch movies from the comfort of the RV. It was almost the perfect trip until the day in question. I woke late, just before noon. Shane had slept with me on the couch. As a pit bull terrier, he is not as large or heavy as most other dogs of the pit bull breeds, but he was still quite big and weighed around fifty pounds at his last check-up.

I woke to use the bathroom; as the RV has no connection to a sewer tank and the home is perched on a mountain (and also unusable), I relieved myself behind a tree. In the span of a few seconds I turned to find Shane chasing down the neighbor's horses. In a panic, I called his name and he stopped and turned. He was hard headed and adventurous, but he always listened, even if he didn't want too. He returned and squeezed underneath the chicken wire fence where I scolded him. He slunk toward the ground, his ears back as he gave me the innocent look. “BAD!" I yelled, before motioning for him to follow me. My mother left the RV as I was returning.

It was my habit to prepare equipment to take on any trips; a sidearm, small knife and several other components. All these things would be worn on a military web belt, the kind used for dress and not actual combat; it suited my needs. My mother walked to “the rocks" a formation of massive stones the size of full sized cars, and many were larger. That sat at the top of a steep cliff that sat easily forty feet high or more. Years ago, and even the very day before this incident, I had explored several caves and checked the rocks. Shane, ever curious, kept trying to peek around the ledges but my father and I never let him, yelling at him to stay near us. Shane ran toward her, bounding so happily. I stood with a foot on the outside step, a hand on the rail as I turned my head to look at him.

He stopped and looked to me, then back to my mother, then back to me. I thought that I would find him in only a few minutes after I put on my pistol and other gear, so I stepped inside without calling him to me, letting him go with her. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life. Stepping inside the RV, my mother and Shane walked down a path toward the rocks, which sit as tall as the trees in the valley below. It marks on of the borders of Daniel Boone national forest. I was inside for only a few minutes. I collected my things and placed them on the table as I prepared my belt. As I put on my gear, I started looking for something that I though I needed. I cannot remember what on earth it was. Suddenly, the door to the RV swung open. Stepping inside, my mother spoke to me.

“I think Shane fell over the edge. I heard a noise and like trees breaking and I can't find him."

In a panic, I pushed her aside and raced down the path with only what I had on me. Black jeans, a purple t-shirt, and my hiking shoes. My black web belt with brass buckle held only my holster, two-tone Bersa Thunder 9 Pro pistol, a leather sheath with a small skinner with a bone handle, and a double magazine pouch and two spare mags. I still hadn't eaten, nor did I collect water. I raced to the cliffs and looks around, screaming Shane's name. “Shane! Shane!" I yelled at the top of my voice. I heard nothing. I couldn't see anything, but I was determined to find him. I made a promise to myself that I would not rest until I brought him back, and I do not like to break promises under any circumstance.

I raced back up the path, passing my mother. I could not help but briefly scold her, telling her that “Shane is like a child; you can't take your eyes off him for a second." I heard her apologize as I raced down the trail. I thought about telling my father, who was inside and working on the home's water heater. Instead, I ran past the house and too a small stream that runs from the front yard and down the mountain. Although steep, it is quite manageable. Several days earlier, my father, Shane and I had walked that path. I kept hoping that he was alive and merely injured, if that. Perhaps he was just lost and scared? I turned my head to look at the cliffside and my eyes grew wide.

The base of the cliff was at least forty or fifty feet from the ground, and the hill was easily a twenty percent grade. That is to say, if you were on flat ground and standing to face it, it sloped steep enough to reach head height in only a few feet. I made my way quickly down the path, quietly begging God to let him be alright. I am not a hunter, or a tracker. I do practice wilderness survival, but I was not sure what to look for. The obvious was breaks in trees, so I kept my eyes peeled. In short order I could hear my father calling out to Shane from the top of the cliffs. Leaving the stream, I followed along the base of the cliffs and through the dense forest.

The brush was thick, half-dead and half-alive. The slope of the ground made it impossible to maintain balance. Some of the ground was, in fact, moss-covered rocks that seemed to be at a nearly identical slope as the soil of the mountain. The entirety of the ground was covered in dead leaves from last year's fall, making it impossible to see the hazards. I pushed through dense brush as I made my way toward my father's voice, looking around for Shane as he called his name. I had hoped that perhaps he was trying to make his way back to us, and I would see his smiling face in the bushes. Running along the base of the cliff that marked the property, I bulldozed my way through with brute strength, crushing both live and dead trees as much as two inches thick with my bare hands.

A patch of thorn bushes clawed my arms and another my chest and side. I didn't care. I pressed on and continued to beg and plead, in between screaming his name. The heat of the day and the exertion caused me to sweat profusely. My long brown hair turned stringy and the whole of my back was drenched. My muscles burned and all I wanted to do was lie down, but I kept going. Reaching the base of the cliffs, I looked up and saw a cave system that I was familiar with, a gape in the mountain with a tunnel that leads to the surface. I noticed several breaks in trees but only one was fresh, the others were dead wood. Looking around that tree, I saw nothing. There was no blood, no fur, and no sign of my best friend.

Running around the base of the mountain, I completely circled it with no sign of Shane. My heart was pounding in my chest and I briefly wondered how awful I must look, like a redneck killer in a horror movie. Reaching a steep slope I realized that I was too far from wherever Shane fell. Yelling up to my dad, I asked him to look for Shane near the RV and the fence to the other yard. I prayed to God that perhaps a tree fell by happenstance and Shane had just slipped by my mother, who is admittedly not very observant. On on occasion, she walked into a woman who should have been in her peripheral vision, simply because she wasn't paying attention.

I didn't want to go back the way I came, yet I was so desperate for information that I looked up the slope. It is easily a forty-five or fifty-degree angle, yet I scaled it anyway. I fell to my hands and knees, swearing profusely and scrambling like a spider for nearly one-hundred feet until I emerged at the top of the little mountain. I fell to my knees where my dad found me and told me that my mother had left in the family car to see if there was a way down, admittedly a fool's errand, and he could not see Shane anywhere. Though he asked me to stay, I refused and ran back to the little stream where I went right back down again, without bothering to rest or even drink water. Nothing was going to stop me.

I moved even further down the second time, following the stream. I saw a white and brown form in the stream and immediately began to panic. As I moved closer, I realized that it was merely a fern glowing in the vibrant sunlight against its earthen background. I sat down on a damp rock and began to cry, terrified at the realization. After collecting myself, I pressed onward. Emerging in a clearing, my dad was able to see me from the cliffs above and his voice was very faint. We could barely communicate by shouting, but he called me over to him. He could only guess as to where Shane fell. Pulling my way up the mountain, I kept moving even though every muscle besides my core was screaming in agony. I begged God to help me find Shane and to give me strength, but I soon collapsed.

After an uncomfortable silence, I heard my father calling out to me. In a rage, I yelled back and swore in my statement, telling him that I was just resting and explained exactly how dense the forest is. A machete would have long since broken in this forest, and an axe would be too slow. I powered through the pain as I continued to climb, slamming into branches and occasionally falling into little holes filled with putrid muck. As I stopped again, I could barely breathe. My mouth was dry and my body dripping with sweat. I couldn't hardly move, but I knew that I had too. For a moment I considered heading back up, but I took that thought and beat it death on the rocks before me; I wasn't leaving without him. Then I turned my head to scan the area.

My heart sank as I saw a shaded area with another brown and white figure. Barely fifteen feet from me lie Shane, motionless and wedged underneath a rotting log. I could not see the base of the rocks, so I can only assume that he fell and rolled down the embankment, which would be incredibly easy to do. I raced up to him yelling “I found Shane!" to my father. Standing before my beloved dog, I looked down at him. Flies already buzzed around his body, and blood dripped from his nose and mouth. Though he had no read physical injuries that you could see, his right eye socket was damaged and what looked like sawdust was jammed into it, though I could see the eyeball within. I felt his body, and he was already turning cold.

I couldn't handle the pain and collapsed. Between the sobbing, I yelled up to my dad. “I found him! Shane's dead!" Is all I could say. As if he couldn't hear me, he asked me to repeat myself. I yelled it again, even louder before I could hear him crying out in sorrow, repeating his name over and over. I waved the flies away as they surrounded his face. “You can't have him!" I yelled in anger. “Come on, Shane. I'm taking you home." I said softly. Reaching down, I lifted his body. I had always heard the expression 'dead weight', but until now I could not understand it. It was as if his body had gained twenty more pounds, and without his aid, I was forced to carry him, alone. I held his body, apologizing repeatedly as I looked around for a path to leave.

He was so heavy, and I was already so tired. I could only walk between ten and fifteen feet before stopping. The first time I stopped, I though I heard rain falling and wondered what it was. I slung Shane over my shoulder like a wounded soldier and that's when I noticed the droplets of blood striking a fern at my left ankle, just a few inches behind me. I could feel the agony of his loss but looking to the mountain above me I knew that I had to get him back. “I'll always come for you, Shane. I'm not leaving you here." I said to his corpse. It was more for me than anything. With a hand on his flank, I did my best to carry him. My dad made his way to the stream to meet me.

After stopping to rest at least six times, I did my very best to make sure that Shane looked comfortable and regularly swatted away the flies. Soon, I reached the stream and my father made his way to me. I sat and cried for a while, my head in my hands as he worked his way closer. He soon followed suit. After we collected ourselves, he offered me a bottle of water. We shared a drink before we decided to try carrying Shane's body back up the mountain by hand. I had already carted him over one-hundred and twenty feet on my own, but we were not quite half-way there. After struggling with the horrendous terrain, we stopped and he produced a rope from that was jammed into his back pocket.

We decided to tie it around Shane's body in a way that looked the least painful and damaging. I took out my bone handled knife to cut the rope. Opening my palm to shift the blade, I saw my fingers where crimson. Shane's blood had leaked all over my back, knife and the exposed grip of my pistol. It broke my heart to look at it. As my father swatted at the flies, I cut two portions of white rope and he tied them around his body. Looping the rope around his torso, over his left leg and underneath his right, he tied a square knot. He tied another portion around his waist. Carrying him like an overstuffed duffle bag, one of us on each end, we scaled the hill, stopping two more times before we reached the house. My mother looked horrified as we walked past her with Shane's corpse.

Clouds blew overhead and what was a perfectly sunny day became dark and gloomy. They suggested wrapping him and taking him back to Michigan, but I angrily demanded that we bury him right away. Though I wouldn't say it, my desire was to give him dignity. It we tried it their way, we wouldn't be home before maggots could hatch and devour him. Inside an outer hatch on the RV was a full-sized shovel. We found a spot and began to dig. We split roots and unearthed a large clay deposit beneath a few centimeters of top soil. I started digging first, but as I handed my father the shovel, I burst into tears.

As I wept for Shane, a loud thunderclap echoed. As if on cue, rain began to fall from the heavens. It was like something out of a movie, standing in the pouring rain as we dug him a grave. Trying my best to keep Shane dry, I carried him as lovingly as I could to overhanging trees. I suddenly had an epiphany and turned to my dad, asking him what day it was. When he told me the day and date, I cried even harder. “Why?" He asked me curiously. “It's..." I choked. I used what strength I had left to hold in my tears. “It's Shane's birthday." We both took turns digging. My hair ran with rivers of icy cold water that washed away some of Shane's blood and my own tears. I felt a chill, but I simply did not care anymore.

My clothes were soaked through, and it didn't matter in the least. We dug a large enough hole in the rough clay, but his body had already grown cold and stiff. I couldn't bend his legs to pose him properly. I had hoped he would look like he was sleeping in the hole, but instead we had to dig the hole bigger to fit him. With my feet sinking into the earth, we began to cover my best friend. I couldn't watch and began pushing it in with my bare hands, sobbing and shivering in the rain. I turned to see my progress, and only his nose stuck out. I often liked to “bink" it, pressing my fingertip against it. He always let me, and we even trained him to meet you halfway by saying “bink". I couldn't handle the sight and wept harder and more loudly.

I frantically shoveled the clay and bits of earth over him, and as soon as we were done the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. I sat on the muddle ground, soaked to the skin and filthy. I stared at the grave for the longest time. My dad suddenly said, “I almost don't feel like staying anymore." I blurted out “I don't want to stay." After talking it over, my parents left it up to me. Though my parents loved Shane, I had raised him since he was adopted at six months old. I never even saw him as a pet, but a friend who also lived with me, ate my food and paid no rent, except I loved him so much that I didn't care. I insisted we leave the same day. We took a moment to pack and change clothes.

As they packed, I took my holstered pistol and drew it so that I could unload and pack it. Shane's blood stained the grips and was drying in the plastic checkering. Droplets fell into the holster and ran down the slide. It broke my heart. I used a paper towel to clean his blood from the gun as best I could, saving the stained towel in a Ziploc bag. I don't know what possessed me to do this; perhaps in the hope that one day I might clone him? I really can't say. Even if given the opportunity, it will never bring back the real Shane; it would be an insult to me to see his happy face, knowing I couldn't save him. I could never suffer that pain every day. We packed the car tightly, with a notable empty space where Shane had sat the whole ride down to Kentucky. It made it even harder to deal with.

Using a thin cinderblock, I sat it on its edge as if it were a tombstone, placing it just above where his head lie. Briefly wondering if I would be able to find his grave, I took several detailed pictures that showed clear lines to permanent objects, a tree and a sturdy shed. My parents joined me at the grave and we all cried aloud. My mother, who at this point seemed detached, finally broke down in tears alongside myself and my father. My father said a pleasant eulogy, which in some ways was even harder to hear that it was to find him at the base of that cliff. They returned to the car and I stopped, seeing several patches of white flowers with a large yellow core. I plucked several from the root and returned to Shane's grave. With my hands, I opened the clay a few inches and planted the flowers, hoping that they would survive there.

I had intended to give him three of his favorite treats on his birthday, but instead I planted three daisies on his grave. Saying my final goodbyes, I entered the car and we drove home in silence. Sitting in the backseat with this horrible memory fresh in my mind is where I am writing this. As I look out the window the rain has long since stopped and the sun is shining. It's a beautiful day outside, but it shouldn't be. I look at the empty space beside me and I am taken back to base of that cliff where I found him. Trying to push the thought aside, I then remember the storm; looking into the hole where my best friend's body will forever sleep. I used to love those rocks, but now no longer. All fond memories have been erased; all I can remember now is the base of the cliff, where not only Shane died, but a part of me as well.

I should never have let him leave with my mother; had I called him over to me he would have come, and he would still be alive. I thought that I would see him in five minutes at the most. Let that be a lesson to all who read this horrible story. Never take anything for granted; a wonderful life can be snuffed out in a matter of second. I never had a real goodbye; a terrible accident stole that from me. The last thing I said to him was “BAD!", but I was only worried about his safety because I loved him so much. I could care less about the neighbor's horses; I just didn't want him trampled. Shane was never bad. I hope that he is resting peacefully, that I will one day see him again, and that he knows that I only ever thought that he was good...