The Sexton's Dog
Listen to this curious story that once took place in a small village near Reims. You might wonder, what was the name of this village? Honestly, I don’t know, for many years have passed since then—decades, even centuries. Perhaps the village has since become a town, or maybe it has vanished from the face of the earth altogether. Who knows? But the name isn’t the point.So, in this village, there once stood an old church where a frail curé, or priest, conducted services. He had no assistants, save for an elderly sexton who was utterly devoted to him. Despite his advanced age, the sexton managed to do it all: he rang the bells, served as a watchman, gravedigger, choir singer, and even helped the curé with household chores, as the priest was too poor to afford a maid. And how could he, when his parish was tiny and his parishioners were all poor folk? But that’s not the heart of the matter...
The curé and the sexton lived their quiet lives without complaining about their bleak fate. And truth be told, what was there to rejoice about? Another day passed—thank the Lord... But, to be honest, the sexton did have one great solace in life: his beloved dog. Now, judge for yourself—could you blame him for such a weakness? Of course not. Especially since his dog was the best in the world.
Strangely enough, the dog obeyed the sexton without question. It would wake him early so he could ring the bells for morning service, guard the church at night, bark diligently at beggars and passersby, wag its tail joyfully, and so on. More than that, it would sometimes venture into the forest on its own and bring back game for the sexton—and, by extension, for the curé. Naturally, both of them adored this remarkable dog and, in gratitude, would toss it a bone or two during meals. Good-hearted souls, no doubt.
One day, the dog brought home a huge hare, which the sexton and the curé turned into a splendid stew. They sat down to enjoy the meal, but they didn’t forget the dog—they tossed it a marrow bone. The dog grabbed the bone and immediately choked on it. It choked and died on the spot. The sexton wailed in grief, tearing at his hair and banging his head against the wall, but there was nothing to be done: the lifeless dog lay at the threshold. In short, the sexton wept and wept, but eventually consoled himself, thinking that the soul of his dog had surely gone straight to dog heaven. No doubt about it.
Well... it might have gone to heaven, but its body still needed to be buried. Yet where? After all, this wasn’t just any dog—it was the best of all dogs.
"Oh, Your Reverence," sighed the sexton, "I don’t want to part with it forever."
"True, true," agreed the curé. "It was a loyal dog. Let’s think of something."
They thought and thought, and finally came up with an idea. And you know what?
You’ll never guess! They decided to bury the dog in the corner of the cemetery where the sexton grew cabbages and celery. Let it rest, they thought, close to its beloved master. And so, the sexton’s dog took its rightful place in the cemetery. Some time passed, and word of these unusual burial arrangements reached the ears of the bishop. The bishop was outraged:
"What! Bury some mangy dog alongside people? This is sacrilege! Hey, send for that blasphemous curé. I’ll make sure he understands what’s what!"
Needless to say, the bishop was a man of stern disposition and kept a close eye on the behavior of his subordinates. He had no flaws, save for one: he was consumed by greed.
The bishop’s messenger galloped to the poor curé and ordered:
"Be at the bishop’s residence first thing in the morning!"
"Do you know what I’ve done wrong?" asked the curé, pale with fear.
"Not exactly," replied the messenger. "They say you buried a dog in sacred ground, where only people are meant to rest."
"Oh, woe is me! It’s true!" the curé exclaimed in horror. "Tell the bishop I’ll be at his feet first thing tomorrow."
The messenger left, and only then did the curé realize the gravity of his mistake.
"What a disaster!" the old man cried. "He might throw me in a dungeon for this terrible sin. Where can I find salvation?"
The curé spent the entire day in prayer, repenting and weeping...
Meanwhile, the sexton, unaware of what had happened, was tending to the cemetery garden near the dog’s grave when suddenly... What a surprise!
The sexton burst into the curé’s room without knocking, breathless with excitement.
"Mr. Curé! Mr. Curé!" he shouted, almost choking with joy, and handed the curé an old, moss-covered box he had just dug up from the cabbage patch. "Look, Mr. Curé, look what I found in the ground!"
The curé rose from his knees and asked wearily:
"What is it now?"
"Just look!"
The curé opened the box and immediately sat down in shock: it was filled to the brim with golden écus. For a moment, forgetting all his troubles and sins, the old curé broke into a satisfied smile and even closed his eyes. Then he heard the sexton’s voice:
"Mr. Curé, all these écus belong to you."
"No, no..." the curé finally opened his eyes. "They’re yours. You found them, not me."
"If that’s the case, I give them to you."
"No, my friend, keep them for yourself."
"What would I do with them? Think about it."
"All right. Let’s split them equally."
They divided the golden écus equally. After that, the curé split his share into two equal piles: one he put in the cupboard, the other he poured into a pouch. Early the next morning, he set off for the city to face the fearsome bishop.
The bishop was already waiting for him and, without even inviting him to sit, unleashed a torrent of thunder and lightning upon the poor curé. He berated him with such fervor and eloquence that the curé understood only one thing: he had committed a hundred mortal sins and would spend the rest of his days in a dungeon. However, our curé hadn’t forgotten the bishop’s great weakness—his greed. And so, he said humbly:
"Your Grace, I am guilty. I made a terrible mistake, but... please forgive me, a sinner. That dog was the best of all dogs, and I thought it wouldn’t be such a great sin to bury it in holy ground. Oh, Your Grace, if only you had known it, you would have loved it too and said: no, this dog cannot be buried just anywhere."
"Why is that?" the bishop asked, surprised.
"Because, before it died, the dog made a will."
"What nonsense!" the bishop began to get angry again.
"It’s not nonsense, Your Grace, but the absolute truth. Judge for yourself: it bequeathed you a hundred golden écus. Here they are!"
And the curé poured a hundred gleaming golden écus from his pouch onto the bishop’s table.
"Hmm..." the bishop said thoughtfully, stroking the gold coins with a trembling hand.
Then, turning to the curé, he said graciously:
"Perhaps you’re right... It really was a clever dog. Very well, let it rest where it lies. It certainly won’t defile the sacred ground. Amen."
And so ended this remarkable tale of the dog that bequeathed a hundred golden écus to a man of the cloth.
Truth be told, I’ve been looking for such a dog myself, but I’ve never found one.
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