Maggie? Is That You?

Ok, this is weird, but as I sit here in front of my computer at one in the morning, waiting for the insomnia to pass,  I can smell my dog.  My dead dog, Maggie.  I can SMELL her. Right now.  I can smell her as strongly as if she were lying on the kitchen tile at my feet like she always used to do. Can ghosts carry a scent?

Maggie has been gone for nearly two months.  I miss that dog, more than I thought I would.  I don't really miss her smell though.  If I was going to get an other-worldly visitation from her, I would rather have her big brown eyes looking at me and her soft floppy ears to scratch one more time.  Oh well. I guess some things linger longer than others.  But I really do miss her.  Not every day, but often I think about her, and still wonder if we did the right thing by putting her to sleep.  I don't think we will ever know for sure.  We just did what seemed best at the time.  Poor old girl.

Mostly, we just want her back-not the old tired dog who left us, but  the real Maggie, the Maggie who was way too happy for her own good, who could jump as high as Dan's outstretched arm,  who could not resist a good fight with the sprinkler, who never turned down a ride in the car.  Funny how even  a dog, when you love her and then she gets old and leaves you, makes you start pondering things like resurrection and death and the meaning of life.

Oh Maggie, old girl, it's late.  Let's get to bed.