Photo by David Cohen on Unsplash

I don’t remember dying. I couldn’t tell you if it was painful or if I was scared. I can barely remember anything before the accident. According to the reports the truck driver ran a red light, and took my head off in the collision, so I assume it was quick. It would’ve been a nightmare for the funeral home, except that I’d asked to be cremated. Open caskets creeped me out; I hadn’t enjoyed playing dress up in life, I somehow doubted I’d enjoy it dead.

Anyway, if you’re looking for a story about what it’s like when you die, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is a story about me. Well mostly, it’s a story about my irrational attachment to The Dog, and the adventures we had after I died.

The decision to come back wasn’t some big conversation with an all mighty being. It boiled down to one thing – my family and friends would eventually move on, The Dog most definitely would not.

From the moment we got him, he was all kinds of special. He decided I was his and would have no one else. He followed me everywhere, loved me through heart breaks, helped me through colds and coughs and made me laugh. He was neurotic and needy and the biggest chicken. He was me, just furry and with four legs. He hated when I left him, but I always came back. I wasn’t about to let being dead stop me.



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