A friend and I once took a day trip to visit some of the more unusual tourist places in the state. The Coon Dog Cemetery was my choice, made with more than a little tongue in cheek.

Boy, was I wrong.

It was way out in the boonies and up a hill, on a surprisingly beautiful piece of land. The cemetery was lovingly tended. Bright plastic flowers decorated the graves, and everywhere were small signs of people who had come here because a dog they loved deserved a place to be remembered.

By the end of the day, it was my favorite stop.

I think it was the name that had invited the snicker in me. Coon Dog Cemetery. It sounded so thoroughly Southern, so wonderfully peculiar.

But standing there, it didn’t seem peculiar at all.

These were simply people who had loved their dogs, and missed them enough to make a place for remembering them.

I arrived amused.

I left understanding.

And I haven’t snickered since.