True story. When one of my kids asked for a dog, I naively made the bargain whereby if she saved enough money to fence in our entire one acre yard, I would buy the dog. A year later, the eleven year old came back to cash in on the bargain. Of course, I thought the dog-shopping process would be protracted. (I hoped it would be.) Her list of dog qualities were pretty steep. She wanted a large breed, a female, but the runt of the litter. It was a karmic joke when the first Great Pyrenees breeder I called had only one puppy left – a female, but the runt of the litter.
So we decided to put the fun theory to the test. (I was still resistant to the notion that the dog could be barking at anything other than a wreathe or a tombstone shadow, despite the fact that Holly Memorial has no tombstones and flowers are all mounted in small, matching bronze vases on each grave.) It was on a lark that I indulged the kids and pulled into the local churchyard. We sat in the car, motor running, with the graveyard off to the side. The puppy stood up in the back when we stopped, casually looked around, focused on something in the church cemetery, and started barking her head off!
The man’s spirit drifted up from his body and hovered from some spot overhead. He came down, brushed past Mama, then settled inside my body. I could sense him stretching his fingers, like he was trying to fit himself into a tight glove, his chest pressing behind my chest, his neck stretching inside of mine before moving out again.
And he whispered.
“Tell him. Theresa is alive. Acknowledge the child.”
Then repeated the words, then repeated them again, then again, and again…
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