Pokin Around: The man who has spent about $14,000 to build a memorial to his dead Chihuahua

Jerry Manson, 65, tells me Abella, his dead Chihuahua, was more than just a best friend.

"She was my soulmate," he says.

“I guess I was closer to her than I was to both of my kids. ... People tell me they have never seen a man love a dog like I did.

“She knew when I was sad. She knew when I was sick.

“This dog has not caused me the heartache, the pain or the grief. This dog loves me unconditionally. This dog is always happy to see me. It never said, ‘I don’t want to go. When are we going to get there?’ Or, ‘I hate you and wish you were not my dad.'"

I am riveted by this. This is beyond my experience of loving a pet.

We sit in the shade of a pin oak tree in the Lakeland Pet Cemetery. The sign says: "Your pet. Your companion. Your best friend."

We rest on two black marble benches — each inscribed with images of Abella's life.

We chat during the heat of Monday afternoon. But it is cooler in this spot; the mature tree offers the only shade in the pet cemetery. Above, the breeze plays a song of serenity on the wind chimes.

"This is my sanctuary," he tells me.

The benches are part of the memorial Manson has built to his deceased Chihuahua; it's not far from the Galloway Creek running/biking trail, north of the James River Freeway.

Thus far, he has spent about $14,000 on the benches, lighting, security cameras, three recently planted juniper trees and the white baby's casket in which Abella lies in repose near our feet.

Manson reaches low.

"Her little head is right here."

Abella was only 7 when she died Aug. 13, 2017. She had suddenly become ill.

“I am crying," Manson recounts. "I picked her up. Blew on her. ‘You are going to be OK, baby.’ But she died in my hands. This is unacceptable. I threw my glasses."

That day, he and his wife, Laurie, called the pet cemetery, which is part of the Rivermonte Memorial Gardens atop the hill to the east. That's where the Klingner-Cope family funeral home is.

Arrangements were made; Manson gave the eulogy at the dog's funeral.

'It's scared men who have big dogs'

Jerry and Laurie have been married 25 years. He owns a freight shipping company in Springfield. He was married before and has two daughters from that marriage — one lives in Arkansas and the other in Willard.

During that marriage, he says, he had a German shepherd named Delilah.

He was fond of Delilah. His love endures for Abella.

“I cradled that dog right here (in the crook of his left arm) for seven years. I held her there when I pumped gas. She sat on the dash when we drove the RV to the Grand Canyon.

“Abella did not think she was a dog. She never slept on the floor — always on the bed. That was her bed. She allowed us to sleep there.

“This dog has 22 totes of toys in storage. This dog got anything she wanted. I used to tell the kids, ‘You better be nice to this dog because she is going to be your trustee.’”

In 2009, the couple purchased the Chihuahua from a breeder in Fair Grove. It was a Christmas present for Laurie. The dog was one of a litter.

“She ran over there and got up on Laurie’s boot," Manson recalls. "That was it. I fell madly in love with her.”

Also, he tells me, "Abella saved my life."

How so?

First, Manson tells me something I did not know and am not sure is true.

He says Chihuahuas have healing powers.

Here's what it says on the Animal Planet website:

"Despite medical research that says otherwise, some people believe that Chihuahuas have healing powers, including the power to cure asthma in children by transferring the disease to themselves."

But Manson is like the blind man in the Bible who proclaims the miracle: All I know is that once I was blind and now I see.

All Manson knows is that he had blood in his urine that doctors thought was related to his prostate. Six weeks after Abella entered his life, the problem was gone and has not returned.

Manson was in the Army 1970-1973 and served overseas. He has a voice that sounds like it's been roughed up by cigarettes.

It has. As I shoot video, he steps off to light up.

He sports a blazing-white Hulk Hogan goatee and he rides a motorcycle.

I have still not fathomed human matters of the heart — let alone why a man falls in love with a Chihuahua.

But to me, Manson does not look like the type of guy who would fall head-over-heels for an itty-bitty dog.

"It's scared men who have big dogs," he tells me.

He also helps when others need a plot for a pet

Manson has purchased 26 plots at the pet cemetery. They go for about $200 each. For those who cannot afford to bury a pet, he will give them a lot, he says.

Typically, he says, he starts his day by lighting a candle in memory of Abella. He does this at home. He ends his day the same way.

He spends three to four hours almost every day at the memorial. He mechanically pumps water from nearby Galloway Creek to water the area.

“I have been down here at midnight," he tells me. "My wife says I need counseling."

I ask Laurie about that.

"He had a very strong devotion to that dog," she tells me. "He loved her. It was unconditional. He just really misses her and this is how he deals with it.

"Jerry is just the type of person who does everything in high-definition," she says. "He does not do anything halfway. He goes all the way when he does something."

Building the memorial has been an ongoing negotiation, he says.

For example, upright headstones are banned at the pet cemetery. So Manson got the OK for the benches.

If he hadn't, he says, "I would have bought five acres in Arkansas and buried Abella there."

An upright angel is on its way to the Springfield gravesite.

Last month, Manson did something he swore he would never do. He and his wife bought two Chihuahua puppies — a male and a female, Ophelia and Eli.

Several businesses have done him a solid and offered services either free or at a discount, including Ryan Lawn and Tree, of Springfield, which trimmed the tree; Freshcut Lawn Service, which did sod work; Holt Lawn Care, which does the weekly mowing; and Nixa Monument Co., which is working on a new grave marker that will lie flat in the ground.

'I just lost my best friend — I don't know if I'll ever be OK'

Three times, Manson says, he has come to the pet cemetery and discovered people weeping over the graves of beloved pets.

One of those times the wind chill was minus 14. Manson had come to Abella's gravesite with a leaf blower to remove the snow.

Manson says he rushed to the man and asked if he is OK. And the man told him:

"I just lost my best friend — I don't know if I'll ever be OK."

Such is the bond that ties us to our pets.

These days, he says, others stop to sit on the benches, including joggers, children with ice cream cones, a church youth group, a young adult woman who had just been told by her parents in another state that the family dog had been put down.

Manson shares their grief; he tells them about Abella.

Someday, he tells me, he will be laid to rest near the beloved Chihuahua he believes saved his life.

The funeral home says it has the perfect spot for him up on the hill, overlooking the pet cemetery.

Nope, says Manson. That's not close enough.

"I want to be buried here in the pet cemetery next to Abella," he says. "The policy is that no humans can be buried in a pet cemetery — supposedly."

These are the views of News-Leader columnist Steve Pokin, who has been at the paper six years, and over his career has covered everything from courts and cops to features and fitness. He can be reached at 836-1253, spokin@gannett.com, on Twitter @stevepokinNL or by mail at 651 N. Boonville, Springfield, MO 65806.