January 31 was the first day my dog Chaussette wasn’t there to greet my son when the school bus brought him home after school. (I would put her on a leash to keep her from trying to board the bus and greet her adoring fans, and then the two of us would stand in the driveway scanning the road for the bus’s approach.)
The bus backed into the driveway as usual, and my heart clenched as I had this realization while walking around to the side where Sage was descending. But then I glanced down and realized that there was a set of paw prints parallel to my path. They had to be fresh—Chaussette had died well before the last snow. Logic dictates that they probably belonged to Shep, the neighbor dog, although why he would have come over and walked along our driveway in the middle of a bitter winter is beyond me.
Still, it’s the only really plausible explanation.
On the other hand, I’ve already determined my position on the role of logic when it comes to Chaussette. While I don’t believe she’s become a roaming ghost dog, I can’t help finding comfort in these random but amazingly relevant tracks.
There may be no meaning to them, but I’m choosing to believe there is.