This photo I entitled “Ghost Dog,” taken seven years ago today, popped up on my Facebook “memories” this morning.

The dog in question, the one huddled in the corner of an oversized pen in an overly loud and crowded animal shelter, trying to disappear into the shadows, was Dobby.

I had stopped in on a whim, thinking perhaps I could volunteer. Wondering if I had the resolve to work in such a place and not get myself into trouble.
Not feel a connection.
Not fall in love.
Wondering if I would be able to leave such a place empty hearted and empty handed.

Turns out I could not.

The baby in the corner, too young to be on his own, too small to compete with his larger kennel mates; the one with the haunted eyes and the unwavering gaze, the one who turned his back on me but glanced back from time to time over his shoulder to make sure I was still smitten, possessed me all at once and still.

The thing about ghosts I have discovered through the years, is that they fill themselves in if you give them a chance.

The outline becomes more solid. The hair more dense. They allow you to catch more than a glimpse of them as they scurry away to hide to avoid detection.

These ghosts grow solid and real. They become more confident. Let themselves be known.

Some become poltergeist. Cause destruction and hope they are somehow invisible.

Howl and shriek in the night.

Cause your heart to beat faster and your sanity to be questioned.

Haunt your house and your soul, remind you that you are never really alone. And for all of the chaos, you wouldn’t have it any other way.