A Strange Dog Sat At My Son’s Grave Every Day — One Day, I Decided To Follow It
My name is Diane, and I lost my son Caleb three years ago, at just nineteen, in a car accident that still doesn’t feel real most mornings when I wake up.
I visit his grave every Sunday. For the past several months, I noticed a dog there almost every single time, a scruffy mixed breed with no collar, always lying quietly beside his headstone, gone by the time I left.
I asked the groundskeeper about him once. He just shrugged and said the dog had been showing up for a while, and nobody seemed to know where he came from.
Last Sunday, instead of leaving when I usually did, I stayed back and watched from a distance as the dog finally stood up, stretched, and started trotting toward the cemetery gates.
I followed him. I don’t fully know why. Something in me just needed to know where he went.
He moved with total purpose, never hesitating at a single turn, cutting through streets I didn’t recognize, past a shuttered gas station, down a narrow alley behind a row of houses I’d never had a reason to drive past before.
Nearly twenty minutes later, he stopped in front of a small, run-down house at the very end of a dead-end street, scratched twice at the front door, and sat down and waited.
The door creaked open a few inches, and I stopped walking entirely.
