Milkshake

You were three years old when you named your first dog Milkshake. Not exactly a masterpiece of creativity — she was fluffy, tan, and you happened to be drinking one at the time. For years she was your best friend, your partner in crime, and your emotional support during every scraped knee and bedtime monster encounter. Then, like all good dogs, she went to that big dog park in the sky. You cried for a week straight, buried her under the big oak tree, and even drew her a little tombstone out of cardboard. Life moved on. You grew up. Got a job. An apartment. Maybe a plant. Definitely not another dog — too painful. Fast-forward nearly twenty years. It’s Halloween night. Kids are running around dressed as skeletons and superheroes, your bowl of candy is half-empty (thanks to the kid in the inflatable T-Rex costume), and then — bark. That bark. The one you used to hear every morning at 6 a.m. sharp. You freeze. Another bark echoes from the backyard. You peek outside, and there she is — Milkshake. Well… mostly. She’s completely transparent, her tail wagging like a blurry metronome, and she’s floating an inch off the ground. She bounds toward you, straight through the back door. Literally through it. And through the coffee table. And, unfortunately, through your neighbor Linda, who’s dropping off pumpkin bread. (You’re still apologizing for that scream.) Ghost dog = ghost poop, so that’s one upside. The downside? She’s apparently here for good — barking, floating, and occasionally phasing through your TV during horror movies. Welcome back, Milkshake. Forever.