Someone once loved a dog in the backwoods of Ohio enough that, upon his death, carved his likeness into a rock and, presumably, laid it to rest there. The Stone Dog sits a short hike away from the family cemetery, stressing the importance of this hundred-years dead dog.
This rock isn't small. It's about as bis as the ottoman I'm propping my feet on now and the dog, who is laying down as if at the edge of his master's bed, is the size of a small lab.
I wonder if, after rounding up sheep, the dog liked to run up the hill to the cemetery to drink at the pond fed by an artisan well. Or maybe he lightheartedly teased chickens or kept children company. And, every once in a while, the dog probably trekked over to the old furnace and searched for unlucky mice.
Whatever he (or possibly she) did during his life, the dog was obviously well loved.
I wonder if, when his owner carved this memory, neighbors found it was frivolous as pet cemeteries are considered today. Maybe they liked it's understated quality and lack of flowery poetry to express how the dog will be missed. Or the owner could've done it in secret as a way to grieve for his friend. Any of those stories would be wonderful to pass from generation to generation; unfortunately, I can only speculate based on the existence of the memorial.