A short true story of an encounter with a ghost dog when visiting the graves of my parents.

The cemetery had been nearly empty that day. Wednesday morning wasn’t a popular time to visit this city of the dead.
I pulled my car to a stop at the curb in front of the older, Masonic section where my mother and father were buried. I stepped out of the car with a bundle of flowers that I had picked from my garden and headed toward the graves. It was my usual routine, and today was no different than all the other days.
Or so I thought.
A cool October breeze blew as I walked the short distance to the graves and sat on the cool damp grass and began to lovingly arrange long stems of bougainvillea mixed with white daisies and orange geraniums, placing them equally on both headstones.
Just then, I looked up and noticed a black dog on the far side of the park happily running through the cemetery. It seemed odd to me. For all the times I had been here, I had never seen any animals. I watched the dog for a minute before returning my attention to arranging the flowers. Moments later, I felt what I can only describe as a presence to my right which was closest to my mother’s grave. There had been no noise, no sound of any kind to indicate anyone had approached. As I lifted my head and turned to see what it was, I was startled to see the same dog standing directly beside me; we were practically nose to nose. He was so close, yet I had no fear whatsoever of this stray dog. I wasn’t afraid. In fact, it was just the opposite. I felt warm and comfortable and happy with him there.
“Well, hello there,” I said in the same dog-lover friendly voice I would give to any dog.
The ebony animal stood stock-still and gazed at me for a moment as if assessing me, then suddenly turned and began running as fast as it could through the grounds as if this were its own private yard to play in. I watched him for just a few seconds, and then returned my attention back to arranging the flowers. I did that for no more than thirty seconds. Then I raised my head to see where the dog was now— but he was gone! I looked in every direction over the vast expanse of flat land, but the friendly black dog had simply disappeared. He was nowhere in sight in the massive cemetery and there was nowhere to hide.
Even on my subsequent visits, I have not seen the strange black dog again.
But there is something about that incident that haunts me still.
My long-deceased mother adored dogs and had many canine pets throughout her lifetime—including a black one very much like the dog that approached me at her grave that cool October day.

THE END