I was drunk by the time I got home. Pulling into the gravel lot behind the house, there was the crunch of small stones under the tires. I parked, swung the car door open, and stumbled out with the pint of Jack in hand, a cigarette hanging from my mouth.

The lot was shared by three bungalows built on the same property. As I walked to my unit, I noticed my neighbor’s Weimaraner, Spooks, sitting behind the storm door and looking out onto the street. He looked majestic sitting there, lean and muscular and upright, and I walked over and stared at him. He looked like a ghost.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he said.

I snapped out of my trance, stuttered, “Uh, wha-, sorry… Um, where's Paul?" Paul was his owner.

“He's dead.”

“What do you mean he's dead?”

Spooks looked up at me like I was some kind of nincompoop. “He's fucking dead,” he said. He then returned his gaze to straight out the storm door, the same contemplative posture I had found him in.

“Christ,” I said, staggering back. “I just saw him a couple... last week maybe? Shit. He was a nice guy. Fuck man. Some funny ideas about the Jews maybe, but nice enough... When did he die?”

“Couple days ago.”

“In the house?”

Spooks stared silently out the window. My eyes got wide.

“Is he still in there?"

Silence.

“Jesus, you've been all alone with him? Are you hungry?"

Spooks replied flatly.

“No.”

My mouth hung open as I stared, cigarette smoke wafting up from my right hand.

“I could use a walk though,” he said. “What do you say we get out of here?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and without thinking, reached up and opened the storm door. Years later, I’d look back on that day and sometimes wish I hadn’t.

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