Digging the hole for Brute, the family dog was hard, but not as hard as losing a beloved family pet. My shovel cut through the soil easy enough, but sweat was pouring from my forehead. The box I had built for him, sitting only a few feet away. I had made it in my wood shop out of raw birch and burned his name in the lid. He had been a good dog for the nine years he had lived with us in Georgia.
Once the hole was deep enough, I climbed out and slid the box in with tears escaping down my face. The vet had said they could handle his body, but I had insisted that he come home with me so I could lay him to rest properly. Thankfully, the kids were at school today and my wife was at work so they didn’t have to see me carrying him from the car.
Pushing the soil back into the hole there was a sudden flash of plastic as it fell. I had never buried plastic in the yard that I knew of, but I didn’t want it where Brute was buried, so I climbed back down and pulled what appeared to be a sealed plastic container from the hole. I opened it and found what looked like a weathered piece of paper inside.
If you’re reading this it’s not too late.
Avoid cities on 2/12/2018.
Go to coordinates 47°31’26.4″N 114°59’34.7″W
I read the note over and over again, trying to figure out what it meant. I raked my fingers through the dirt trying to find anything else that may lead to a clue as to its origins, but found nothing. I put the paper back in the container and set it outside the hole before finishing the job I had started. Once Brute was completely buried I placed a grave marker on his grave, grabbed the container, and went in the house to clean up.
I showered quickly and upon reentering the kitchen I saw the container on the counter. I opened it and read the note again. The handwriting looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of why. I brought the note with me to the living room, where my laptop was, and did a quick search for the coordinates. The results were for this little place called Weeksville in Montana that barely had a population.