Sheldon the Dog Ghost

Sheldon the Dog Ghost:

I woke up from my sweet dream, waiting for my little owner to call my name, but something felt really off. I felt so light; the house that used to have no wind at all suddenly felt so windy, like the heart of a forest at night. I tried to smell if I was still at my owner’s house, but there was no smell at all, no warmth, no sweetness, no dirt, not even my owner! I panicked. Why couldn't I smell? A sudden, cold terror struck my chest. I bolted for the door, my legs moving in a frantic, desperate blur, but the familiar clack-clack of my nails against the hardwood never came. I wasn't moving. I was hovering, my paws clawing uselessly through the solid wood planks. I twisted around, snapping blindly at the air, trying to bite down on whatever was holding me back, but my teeth met nothing. I tried to yelp, to whine, to beg for help, but the silence inside my own head was deafening. I was trapped in my own skin, but the skin wasn't real anymore. Just then I heard Mommy say, “Peter, honey, I am so sorry, but you need to eat and live ok? We will bury him with his best toy.” Her voice had its usual warmth, but it sounded sad, like she was trying to hide it.

 I finally believe it: I died.

 I went to my little owner; he was sobbing into his pillow and whispering: “ No…. Sheldon….Stay with me….Nooooo please…” My heart dropped; I slowly went next to my little owner. I tried to bump into his hands, but it didn’t work; I forgot I was a ghost! I cried and whined, but none of them worked. I barked: “I am here, look at me, don’t cry.” The feeling of trying my hardest but not doing anything really drags my heart down; the emptiness makes me stare at the ceiling blankly. My mind got dragged way back to when I was still a little puppy. 

   “Go get it, you got it, Sheldon, go get your bone!” yelled my little owner loudly and happily. I rocketed across the field and got it and gave it to my owner. He was so happy, smiling and laughing with me. I licked all over his face, and he would say, “ No, Sheldon!” When still laughing. We would always go to the field and play a sport he called baseball, and he said I always lose. We chase each other; laughter can ring all across the world but will not wake my body up now. When I was young, I would run to the mirror every day and stare at my golden body. He would always put clothes on me, and he said I looked funny. When he said that, I would lie down on my back and tell him to scratch my belly. Laughing was never stopping.

 But that is also what is dragging me back to the real world. But that is also what is dragging me back to the real world. I got up onto Peter’s bed and snuck into his lap. I tried to find the warmth back again, but it didn’t work. I looked up at my little owner, he got out of his bed, and said: “ Ok, I am so sorry Sheldon, but I have to bury you. You really do deserve the best things in the world, but I am so sorry.” He walked to my bed slowly, I followed. When we walked to my bed, I saw me lying on the bed, lifelessly. My golden hair was reflecting the sunlight, blinding me. I wish I could go back and have fun with my little owner again. 

He picked my body up, and said: “ Mom, I am ready.” But he was still sobbing. I leaned against him, but fell straight through. 

Mom and Peter were out in the garden, right by the big oak tree where I used to chase squirrels. But they weren't playing. Peter was gripping the shovel, his knuckles white, lifting heavy mounds of dark, wet dirt. Mom was on her knees, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with those terrible, silent sobs.

I trotted closer, my tail giving a soft, hesitant wag. I wanted to tell them I was right here. I wanted to nudge Peter’s hand so he’d drop the heavy iron tool.

Then, I saw what was lying on the grass between them.

It was a bundle wrapped in my favorite old blue fleece blanket. Strands of bright golden fur peeked out from the edges. I stepped right up to it, dropping my nose to sniff, expecting the familiar scent of lake water, muddy paws, and dog shampoo. But there was nothing. No scent at all. It was just a hollow, still shell.The last scoop of dark earth patted down over the blanket, and it was done. Peter stuck the shovel into the grass, his shoulders slumped, and Mom wrapped her arms tight around his waist. They stood there together by the oak tree, just holding onto each other, looking down at the fresh mound of dirt.

I tried to step toward them to sit at their feet, but my paws wouldn't grip the grass anymore. A strange, gentle pull took hold of me from above.

I was rising.

It wasn’t scary. I didn't feel heavy or tired anymore; I felt as light as the dandelion fluff I used to chase in the spring. My ghostly paws drifted off the ground, and the green lawn began to sink away beneath me.

Higher and higher I went, floating past the lower branches of the oak tree, then over the roof of our house. The chimney, the patio chairs, the fence I used to bark at—they all shrank until the whole property looked like a little toy set tucked into the neighborhood.

“Thank you, I love you. I am sorry, goodbye.”I whispered when I still have the last views of my cozy house.

The end.