Week 9 Storytelling: The Ghost Dog

Grayson Jones couldn't sleep.

His feet were cold. 

Normally, it didn't bother the second grader to have chilly toes—he frequently splashed barefoot in the pond behind his house late into autumn—but that night, his un-warmed feet reminded him of what—or rather, who—wasn't there. 

Grayson's beagle, Bilbo, had slept at the foot of the little boy’s bed as far back as he could remember. In fact, Bilbo had slept beside Grayson's cradle even before that, although Grayson couldn't remember that far. 

Bilbo was an old dog, and in the past few years, he had started to move a little slower. His back left paw dragged the floor a bit when he walked, and it seemed a great difficulty for him to lift his body from his dog bed in the afternoons.

Bilbo’s family knew his time was coming to an end, but Grayson didn’t understand why the dog he’d known his entire life could be falling apart so soon—for it was just the beginning of Grayson’s life, after all.

And so, when Bilbo didn’t wake to lick Grayson’s face that fateful morning, the little boy wasn’t prepared for the loneliness that followed.

His family held a respectful funeral for old Bilbo in their backyard, and Grayson’s mother and father shed earnest tears as they planted a flower over the dirt. But when Grayson came home from school, there was no one to wag his tail and lick his shins. There was no one to hunt frogs with in the backyard. And there was no one to warm his feet at night.

After what felt like hours of searching for sleep, Grayson climbed out of bed. He went to the backyard, through the gate, and into the lily field. He thought about the times he and Bilbo had wandered through the weeds, hunting down robbers and buried treasure. He thought about the time he’d fallen and scraped his knee, and Bilbo had licked his wounds before running off to fetch his mother.

He just wanted to see his friend again.

Finally, Grayson reached the pond. He’d played on the red-dirt shore near his house numerous times—Bilbo sometimes swam there, too.

But Grayson had never ventured to the tree line that began near the middle of the pond. The water curved around a hill and was shaded by dense willow trees, making the opposite shore seem dark and mysterious, even in the summer.

Grayson reached the first tree and kept walking. He climbed the hill a little farther, passing two more trees. Finally, the shade of the leaves blocked the bright moonbeams, and Grayson stood in near darkness, looking down on the enigmatic glimmer of water that had before been out of sight.

There, on the far shore, darting between the trees and occasionally into the murky water, was a pack of dogs. A large greyhound sniffed diligently at an oak; a tiny dachshund dug at a rotten stump; and at the waters’ edge, illuminated by a milky beam of light, Bilbo sat howling whole-heartedly at the moon.

Grayson smiled. “Bilbo!”

At the boy’s voice, the dog ran toward him. The beagle dashed through the slippery mud and darted up the pebbly hill, and Grayson realized that this was not the dog he knew. It was Bilbo, yes, but he moved with an ease Grayson had never seen, or couldn’t remember.

Bilbo yelped cheerfully and jumped at Grayson’s feet. The boy knelt down, and his friend licked his face excitedly, wriggling from wet nose to pointy tail. His eyes were clear and bright, no longer foggy and tired.

“I miss you, Bilbo.”

The dog whined and licked the little boy’s face. Then he scampered off to a nearby bush. He picked up a stick, the perfect size for throwing, and brought it to Grayson.

The two played for hours, fetching and chasing fireflies and digging in the mud. After a long while that felt entirely too short, Bilbo ran to the edge of the forest and sat down, looking back at his old house.

It was time for Grayson to go home.

“I wanted you to come home, Bilbo,” Grayson said, petting the dog’s slick head.

But he knew he couldn’t now. Bilbo was livelier than Grayson had ever seen him, and the little boy suddenly realized he didn’t want to see his friend limping or wheezing again, even if that meant his own feet weren't warm at night and no one licked his fingers after dinner.

Grayson knelt beside his friend and rubbed his ears. Bilbo licked his face until there wasn’t a dry spot on the boy’s skin, though that was partly from the tears that dribbled down his cheeks.

“Goodbye, Bilbo.”

Grayson stood and walked down the hill to the familiar shore of the pond and stopped. Turning, he waved one last time at his faithful friend, who barked from his spot at the edge of the trees. 

Then Bilbo ran back through the woods to the other side of the pond, where he never limped, the grass was soft, and the air was always warm.

(Happy Bilbo)

Bibliography: Alaskan Legends; The Ghost Land, from an Anthology by Katharine Judson

Author's Note: I based my story on an Alaskan legend called The Ghost Land. In this story, the chief's son's wife dies, and the man is terribly sad. One night he can't sleep, so he gets up early and walks all day along the "Death Trail" until he reaches a lake. On the other side of the lake, he sees people wandering about, including his wife. He yells at them several times, but they don't hear him. Then he whispers, and someone from the other side notices him. He crosses on a little boat and finds his wife, who tells him he shouldn't stay long. He brings her back with him to his home, but no one can see her. They lay a blanket over her, but it hangs in the air like she's a ghost, which she is. Then the man dies and they both go back to ghost land as ghosts.

The haunting element of the story intrigued me, but I also thought the story needed a little better ending besides, "We can't see her. You die. The end." I thought of people who've lost love ones and how hard it is to let them go, even when we know they're in a better place. I wanted to incorporate that "lesson" into my story, so I used a dog who was in pain because of his old age. I wanted Grayson to realize and be a little more at peace with how happy Bilbo was in the afterlife, even if they both missed each other.