Mr. Howell's dog...

Paranormal? I like to think so. True? Most definitely.

                When I was younger, and still living at home, my Pop’s best buddy was Bill Howell. Mr. Howell was an old bachelor. He lived in the same house he was born in. He was somewhat older than Pop. Maybe 10 years. He lived alone, except for his dog; a nondescript mutt of a bit more than medium size. But she was fiercely protective of him. If she didn’t know you, you WEREN’T getting into the house. Period.

                Mr. Howell’s house was situated directly across the street from the graveyard, where his parents were buried. There was an open spot right next to them, where he one day intended to be, himself. He could look out his front door and see their headstones, standing beneath the cool shade of a maple tree.

                One day, we received a phone call. Mr. Howell was ill and needed help.  Pop and I raced over to his house. Pop went inside and made me wait, because I had never met the dog before. She wasn’t good with strangers. In a minute, he called me inside. Mr. Howell was sitting in his chair, the dog laying across him, protectively. He was stroking her fur. We called the ambulance. They arrive quickly, and Pop held onto the dog, as they loaded her Master up and took him away.

                Mr. Howell it turned out, had advanced stomach cancer. He wouldn’t be coming home. Pop made arrangements for the neighbor to take the dog. He wanted to bring her home, but he was scared because she was not used to multiple people. The poor animal never saw her Master alive again. Mr. Howell passed away in the hospital a few weeks later.

                It was summertime, when they buried him across the street from his family home, next to the graves of his parents.  We went to the funeral and to the graveyard for the burial. Pop was sad. He had known Mr. Howell for many, many years. They worked together at Sheildalloy Metallurgy.  We stopped at the neighbors house, and Pop checked on the dog, and gave the man his phone number, in case there were any problems.  A very few days later, Pop got a phone call.

                “Mr. Hall, you better come over here.”

                “Why? What happened?”

                “There’s something you need to see. I’m not sure what to do about it…”

                We went over to the neighbor’s house. He was waiting outside for us when we got there.

                “Where is she? What did she do?” Pop asked, noting the paleness of the neighbor’s face.

                “Come on.” So saying, he walked down his driveway and crossed the street, into the graveyard.

                He stopped and pointed beneath the spreading maple tree. There she was. Laying atop the freshly turned dirt of her Master’s grave.

                “What should I do?” the neighbor asked quietly.

                Pop stood there, tearing up. 

                “Leave her be. Bring her home at night to sleep. But if she wants to come here and be with him during the day, just let her be. If the caretaker has an issue, have him call me. I’ll take care of it.”

                That was the way it went. As far as I know, Mr. Howell’s dog spent the rest of her days, laying faithfully on her Master’s grave. 

                Anyone who says animals can’t love, has no soul themselves.