Perhaps this is what a ghost is—the flickering of a small, four-legged shape in the corner, the muted click of nails on the floor, the faint whiff of wet fur in the car because it’s raining.

It’s been two weeks, but she’s still with me. When I throw back the covers in the morning, I expect her to leap from where her bed used to be under the windows. I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. Her habit of 15 years, now ended. When we’re eating roast chicken like we were last night, I save a scrap on the edge of my plate. I can almost see her on her hind legs, jumping. Since she isn’t, I scrape my scraps into the trash. When the sun shines, like last Saturday, I stop myself from whistling and calling her to come with us to the park. My husband and I continue on alone, past the fountain she liked to swim in when the weather was hot, past the ducks she liked to bark at, past the field where we’d throw balls and she’d fetch them.

After a ball

Waiting for a treat

Waiting for the game to resume

She’s still inhabiting her old haunts—my son also agrees. While we’d hoped for her sake that she’d gone onto greener, cleaner, less polluted pastures, we’re glad she’s still with us. Tricks of the mind, perhaps, but I like to think she’s here in another, ghostly form, keeping us company, showering us with that unconditional, accepting love only she knew how to give.