Dead Dog Love Story

When Richie moved in, he brought his dead dog’s leash with him. “This was Cocoa’s,” he said. “We have to hang it by the door. Then if there’s a fire, I can grab it on my way out.” I nodded. We hammered in a nail and hung up the green leash. A limp strip of dark forest, lonely on the cream wall, waiting for its ghostly companion.

“Wait,” I said and went to my jewelry box where, mixed with my rings and earrings, were my own dead dogs’ collars—Gus’s thick blue one, and Gwen’s, a thinner pink. I hooked them on the nail with Cocoa’s leash. Richie nodded. 

“Now if there’s a fire, they’re together.”

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