2005-04-04 - 2:28 p.m.
Standing with my back to the stove, sipping coffee, I look up to see the image of Teddy lying in a patch of snow on top of his grave. He watches me through the window as I look back at him, and for a moment I believe he is really there, waiting for one more walk.
I finish the cup of coffee and look again, but the image is gone. As I draw water for dishes I begin to consider the possibility of ghosts. It has been a year now and sometimes I still go to the back door expecting to see Sirius curled on the wood stoop, waiting to come in. One morning a couple of weeks ago I saw him in Chance—in the way he moved for just a moment, silhouetted against the sun.
I put the empty cup in the sink, catching a blurred glimpse of golden retriever in the window glass as I walk back into the dining room. Inevitably, there’s a scratching at the door, but by the time I finish loading the stove and cross the floor to look, he is gone.
I start the dishes and soon there’s another, slightly hesitant, pawing scratch at the door. It is no ghost or apparition, but Teddy's son, who enters when I say, "Beau, come on."
