We All Carry Ghosts

Bonus ✩ Bug ✩

When we first got our dog, her name was Bug. She'd come from a farm where her job was to chase foxes and keep other animals at bay. My parents didn't tell us that her stay was a test-run. They said we were pet sitting for a friend. My parents told us later that Bug needed a home because she kept herding the chickens. I remember laughing at the idea of her picking them up and moving them around. She never hurt them, but she frightened them, and frightened chickens don't lay eggs.

When we first got our dog, her name was Bug. I guess her original name had been Tug, but her previous owners changed it to Bug. My dad hated the name. He refused to have a dog named Bug, so the brainstorming began. My dad liked the name Lady. I think my mom hated that name. The compromise: Ladybug.

When we first got our dog, Ladybug was chaotic. She would herd us kids around the couch when we played tag with the babysitter. Her favorite pastimes included long walks with dad and running laps around the pool. She would eat almost anything. Now, I can't get her to eat anything.

When we first got our dog, I was still in high school. I think. I can't remember the exact day we brought her home or the first time I ran my hand along her coat. Today, I can only look at the white patches of fur and the whiteness of her nose.

When we first got our dog, we had another dog. Her name was Sadie. They couldn't have been any more different because Sadie was a cat in a dog's body, and Ladybug was a dog through and through. Now, I look at Ladybug standing in the summer grass and recall how Sadie looked the same in her final days.

When we first got our dog, I was still a kid. I was bustling with homework and classes and juggling too many mental burdens that I should've never carried in the first place. I was youthful and not really wild but still exuberant with the hope of a girl who hasn't quite had her heart broken. Now, I look in the mirror and wonder when that girl left me alone on the stage.

When we first got our dog, I don't think I ever considered the reality that one day she would die. I've always known that animals don't last forever, but it's different with your own. You cling to this wild thread that maybe they'll defy everything. You know that they will die, but you don't really think that they'll die.

When we first got our dog, I was familiar with the concept that nothing lasts forever. I'm sure it looked different than now, but I think it was still there—this understanding that loss is a thread that has always been woven into every stitch of my life. I don't want Ladybug to die.

When we first got our dog, I don't know if I ever thought of her as mine. She was dad's, she was my sister's, she was probably even mom's. But mine? No. She wasn't my dog. She was our dog. I've never been close to her, but somehow I'm always the one who spends the most time with them before their time.

When we first got our dog, I realized she had eyebrows. The fur around her face changes color, making her look more expressive than any dog we've ever had. I used to say it looked like she was smiling solely because her mouth was open and her eyebrows were lifted. Now, she lays down, sleeping, most of the day. Her eyebrows are unexpressive, and her energy is gone. My mom thinks she's given up.

When we first got our dog, her name was Bug. She was a lively little thing that would lick without consent. My mom hated that. She knew how to stay when you told her to stay and walked away with your hand up. I loved that. She repeatedly got into food while we were away and would leave the remains strewn on the carpet.

I remember one time we came home to a bottle of honey spilled open on the new carpet. My mom spent the next hour scooping it off with a metal spoon. We used to laugh about that story sometimes. Nobody's mentioned it in years. I wonder if they just forgot or if they're trying to let her go.

When we first got our dog, she would bark constantly. She scared my mom a lot because it would come out of nowhere. But her bark was solid. Firm. Commanding. Demanding "Let me outside." I don't remember the last time I heard her bark. I wish I did. But that's the thing about last times: there's no way of knowing that it's the last.