Let me begin by saying I don't believe in ghosts. When it comes to the afterlife, heaven, hell, God, spirits and everything else in the non-corporeal universe, I'm agnostic. I tend to believe that we're born, we live and we die, and that's the whole ball of wax.
However agnostic means that while I've seen no convincing evidence for a God driven universe, I'm fully OK with the idea that I might be wrong. You can't prove a negative, so all the fanciful things humans have invented to make themselves more comfortable in an infinite universe might be true. I lean toward not, but that's just my opinion.
But this is a ghost story. A ghost story that I didn't make up. This happened to me about two weeks ago.
About a month ago, my dear old dog, Floyd, departed this vale of tears. He was 15 years old, and though saying goodbye broke my heart, I knew it was time. I owed it to him to release him. He had developed laryngeal paralysis and each breath he drew was a struggle.
Floyd, some 8 years ago, when he was in his prime.
Floyd was a wonderful dog. Most people will say that about a pet. We love them, and that makes them wonderful. But Floyd was special. He was the "no problem" dog. He was obedient, cooperative, polite and if I had to choose a single word to characterize him, it would be responsible.
Floyd loved his people and made it his business to protect and care for them. He would have made a splendid service dog. But as fate would have it, he didn't end up taking care of a handicapped person. He was only in charge of me.
Our family has many stories of Floyd stepping up to take charge and help out. If he perceived a threat, he would step in front of any member of his pack to be the first to encounter it. If he was around an elderly person, he would shadow them to be ready to be of assistance. Any time I had the flu I would wake up with the bed full of his toys as he brought me the things he valued most to make me feel better.
Floyd was a dog of strong character and boundless love.
Naturally, when I took him to the vet that last time, I came home in tears. But as it happened, I was near the end of a very important project, so I didn't really have time to grieve right away.
A little over a week later, I was caught up in a frantic effort to finish that project. I earn my living as a landlord. I had an empty house that I was freshening up to re-rent, and I absolutely, positively had to have it finished and ready to hand over that day. I had replaced the kitchen, bathroom and laundry room floors with new vinyl, and I had to get base molding and shoe molding installed around the perimeter of three rooms. I set up my saw horses and miter box, etc., outside on the back porch to keep from covering my new floors with saw dust. So, I was going in and out of the back door as I measured, cut, then dry fit each piece of molding.
I was pretty tightly wound that day. I'm not a carpenter. I wasn't really comfortable with the work, and the deadline was pressing on me -- hard. I had a lease signing just hours away and everything had to be done, including gathering up all my tools and paint buckets and other stuff and getting them out of the house.
As I worked, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. I paused and looked over -- nothing. I went back to work. There it was again. I looked and saw a gray snout pull back behind the corner of the house.
I'm a person who talks to dogs. Not just my dogs. Any dog. You know the nonsense. "Hello there. Are you a good puppy? Who's a good boy..."
In a moment, the nose was back, followed by a big, smooth, gray head, muscular shoulders and a wagging tail. He observed me from a distance for a moment, then eased closer.
I had my lunch back inside the house, and there were a few saltines in with it. (It was a small Wendy's chili -- you always get two little packs of saltines with that.) I decided to offer him a cracker as a friendship gift.
When I held out the cracker, he came up to me, sniffed the offering, then turned away. He wasn't hungry, and even if he was, crackers weren't his idea of a treat. I was instantly reminded of Floyd, who would politely accept, then discard anything but meat, cheese, or meat or cheese flavored biscuits.
This wasn't a stray, of that I was certain. He was in excellent condition -- a mature, but young pit bull with impeccable manners. Manners like Floyd's.
I worked on my base molding project for several more hours. Through it all, he stayed with me, not interfering, keeping a safe distance from the saw, but staying right by me -- almost as if he was keeping himself ready to assist me if I hurt myself with those power tools. Each time I went back inside, he came up to the door and waited for me to come back. I petted him when I had a hand free, and talked to him most of the time I was outside.
I had the oddest feeling that this dog was channeling Floyd. He acted as if he knew me, even though we'd never met before. He didn't really look like Floyd. Floyd had some pit bull in him, though there was also some pointer and lab, as far as we could tell. But this dog had Floyd's calm, companionable presence. He felt like Floyd.
I got my base molding done, and I was thinking that I probably ought to take this dog to my vet to see if he had a chip. His family would undoubtedly be missing him. But as I finished up and was loading my tools into my car, the next door neighbor stepped out her back door and called: "Mac!"
My substitute companion, Mac, jumped up and ran to the fence, clearing it in a single, graceful leap. (My Floyd was an impressive jumper, though he never jumped out of my yard.)
I had to laugh. What a magnificent animal. I envied his family. But I also felt a bit better. There are still wonderful dogs in the world, even though my own paragon of canine character is gone. Life goes on, and so does love.
I said this was a ghost story, even though I don't believe in ghosts. My rational side knows that as I feel the empty place in my life where Floyd lived, it is easy for me to imprint my longing for Floyd onto any random dog that wanders into my path. I think that's a reasonable explanation for a lot of ghost experiences.
But the agnostic part of my psyche would like to be wrong about that. It's easy to imagine Floyd in the anteroom of dog heaven, taking one more look over his shoulder at the mortal plain before he steps forever into the eternal. He puts out the word in the dogasphere, "Hey, guys, keep an eye on my human, would you? She's got nobody to look after her now."
Good boy, Floyd.