For my dead dog, who is dead.
Ratchet was part of the family and we all loved him, but there’s no denying he was the dumbest dog around. It eventually got him killed. He died running into the street to catch a squirrel, but when the squirrel went up a tree on the other side, he just stopped, stood there, and got hit by a truck…a full minute later. The truck was making a bunch of noise, but he was looking off the other way, oblivious; probably thinking stupid thoughts about the squirrel that cost him his life.
I cried that day. It was the first time I had to deal with death, unless you count extended family. When it happened, I was at school, so I wasn’t around. I never even got to say goodbye. Lucky for me, his eternal soul came back to haunt us.
Late one night, I awoke to the familiar sound of Ratchet scratching at the door to be let out. Though it felt very real, I assumed I must be dreaming and settled back into bed.
I awoke the next morning to find my parents sitting guard outside my door, as if they were very frightened. Oddly enough, I could still hear Ratchet downstairs, scratching away at the door. Confused, I asked:
“Mom, can I go get breakfast?”
Mom and Dad took me by the hand and we all went downstairs together, very slowly.
When we reached the kitchen, our jaws dropped. There, scratching at the back door, was Ratchet! Well, his ghost: translucent, bluish, little bits of smoke swirling around him. Look, I’m no expert, but this was obviously Ratchet’s ghost, sitting at the backdoor, crying and asking to be let out. That’s what he’d been doing for the past 6 hours or so. If he still had a bladder, it would have emptied by this point.
My Dad whispered to my Mom (I guess so ghost-Ratchet wouldn’t hear and somehow begin comprehending English): “Maybe it’s like a fulfillment thing, you know? Like he wants to be let out of this life, into the next?”
Grimacing, Mom gave an uncertain nod and pulled me back by the shoulder. Dad, ever so carefully, eased his way towards Ratchet, who could now see his owner was nearing the door and lined himself up to run outside.
“Alright, Ratchet,” Dad said as he released the deadlock, “You’re free. Move on. We’ll miss you!”
And with that, Dad threw the door wide open! Ratchet ran outside into the morning sun, his ghostly figure almost invisible amongst the kaleidoscopic rays of light, his very soul seeming to fly towards the horizon as he bounded into the dew-covered grass!
He stopped after a few seconds though. Then he sniffed at the ground a bit and came back to to be let in.
After a few hours trying to shoo him away, met only with Ratchet’s cocked, ethereal head, Mom and Dad had to accept Ratchet was back and let him in for lunch.
It was really cool having my dog back! As far as anybody could figure, Ratchet wasn’t looking when he got hit by the truck, and was too stupid to realize he had been killed. So, he hung out around the house, doing his regular dog things. We would play fetch in the yard, but I had to do both sides because he wasn’t able to touch corporeal objects anymore. He would sleep in my bed like he always used to, though it was far colder now than it used to be. Other dogs now refused to pass by our house, but when their owners dragged them, Ratchet would run up and introduce himself, often sticking his entire head into his new friend’s rectum.
I was thrilled to have Ratchet around, even just his ghost, but Mom and Dad were not so happy. Apparently taking care of a ghost dog was even more trouble than a living one. Though he was dead, he still wanted food, which he was then unable to eat. They had to trick him into thinking he’d eaten it by distracting him with a toy and hiding the food away. Ratchet still did his business (poops-wise) out on the yard, but it was ghostly, luminescent, and unable to be grasped by physical tools. Basically, everybody on the block could see it, but there was no way for us to pick it up. Also, I never saw this, but years later my Dad told me that when they locked him in the laundry room for whining so much, his eyes burst into flame and he let out a banshee’s wail as he ate the washing machine with four rows of razor sharp teeth or something.
After a while, it was clear even Ratchet wasn’t that happy. He couldn’t play his old games like he used to, people who saw him would treat him differently than before, and also he was just never a fan of autumn in general. Since Ratchet was a ghost, he could walk through walls. But, because he didn’t know he was dead, he didn’t KNOW he could walk through walls. He still had to be let out many times a day to satisfy his bodily functions, and when he saw somebody step on his ghostly foot or bump into him passing by, he would yip and run away, smokey tail betwixt his legs. On the flip side, when he wasn’t paying attention, he would sometimes wander through concrete into random rooms and cupboards, realize he had no idea how he got there, and start freaking out. Once or twice, he walked through me using the bathroom.
Eventually, I realized I wanted Ratchet to be happy more than anything else. I loved having him around, but not if it meant making him sad, so one day, while Mom and Dad were upstairs and Jake was at a friend’s house, I walked over to Ratchet, who was sitting half-inside, half-on-top-of his pillow.
“Ratchet,” I said, and remember I was nine, “I’ll miss you, but I think you have to go. You’re dead, and this isn’t where dead things are supposed to be.”
At this point I began crying a little. It’s a horrible feeling knowing you’ll never see something you care about again. “Just wait around alright, because I’ll be up soon and we’ll have a fun time just like we used to. You’ll see. I’ll be up soon.”
Then, as if giving me a final kiss goodbye, Ratchet licked a tear off my cheek, and ever so slowly just faded away. As it happened, he put his against the pillow and just sort of fell asleep. Looking back, it was extremely cliche, but at the moment it was very touching.
My parents had an exorcist visit about a week later and burn this pentagram into our carpet, but I knew Ratchet wasn’t coming back. He had nothing left to do, he was only hanging around because I hadn’t had my chance to say goodbye. I guess he wasn’t quite as stupid as we made him out to be. In fact, of the five of us who used to sit around the table eating supper, he might have been the only one to have things really figured out. And not just because he could poop outdoors.
–Collin Gossel, Editor-In-Chief