Michael Jeffrey Lee
A man was having a very hard time coming to terms with the fact that his brother was deceased. Even after viewing his brother's corpse, and later, feeling the ashes of his brother in his own hands, even tasting them for good measure, he still refused to accept the bare facts. "He's still alive," he said. "This is all false."
The rest of the family—mother, father, sister—were all more or less resigned to the horrible situation, and had given themselves over completely to grief. Even the deceased brother's rheumy-eyed dog, who had been his faithful companion right up until the end, seemed to register the loss, and was more forlorn and needy than usual.
The man's state of mind was attributed to the fact that he had been living with his brother when he had died, had been his closest confidant and caretaker, the only member of the family, in fact, who could claim a close relationship with the deceased, and, wracked with guilt over his absence on the night the brother passed away, he had manufactured this strange, illogical belief.
That was, however, until the mother's dream, nearly one week after her son had passed, in which her deceased son called the house line, and admitted, while laughing heartily, that the whole thing had been an elaborate prank, and that he was very much alive, living off the grid. She also said that in the dream she was angry with her son, but also angry with herself for being angry.
It was after experiencing this dream that the mother came over to her living son's side, and began to wonder aloud if this had not been some sort of joke played on all of them. "It's true that we spoke to the police and the funeral director and even saw his body," she said. "But can we really be sure that it was his body, after all?"
The sister and father, for a time, remained certain that they had, in reality, lost a brother and son. He had died—he was dust—and they had scattered his dust on the hillside behind their house. But one night the sister was presented with a shock: in the town where she was living with her husband and child, her child spoke the name of the deceased—his first words, as it were. She called her living brother, told him what had transpired, and admitted that she too now suspected Richie was still living.
Then shortly after it was the father's turn, when, while distracted at the office one day, he read a news report concerning a hermit in the northern part of the state who had been arrested for several burglaries and whose physical description matched his deceased son's to a T. He called an emergency family meeting to be held that very night.
"So," said the father, once they were all gathered together, "Marty has an intuition, which at the time seemed quite mad. Then Carrie has a curious dream, and Ellie's child speaks a name he could not have known. And now I have read a news report about a hermit arrested for burglary, who fits Richie's description to a T. Does it seem probable that we have been tricked by our wayward brother and son?"
All agreed, and, seated around the dinner table, with one chair still noticeably empty, they developed a plan of action: They would travel to the northern part of the state and visit the jail where the hermit had been arrested. If he proved not to be their brother and son, they would press on undeterred, enlisting the help of law enforcement, putting up signs and making pleas online, and searching day and night until Richie was found.
But no sooner had the plan been hatched, than Richie's dog, who had been lying very quietly in his bed, cleared his phlegmy throat and began to speak. "I feel so terrible for all of you," he said, "but I cannot endure this any longer. Ritchie was with me that night, as you know, and I was forced to watch as he snorted enough cocaine to kill four horses, despite my protestations, and, while not necessarily a suicidal act in and of itself, one has to wonder whether he hoped to survive it. Although I am still awaiting the toxicology report, I suspect it will also reveal that the coke was spiked with fentanyl, which, combined with the extraordinary amounts of unregulated kratom he was taking, induced an overdose. At first I thought he was sleeping—he was snoring loud enough to wake the dead—but alas it was only his respiratory system shutting down. I barked and barked, nearly tearing my larynx to pieces. I nudged him and nudged him but Richie wouldn't wake. It was a dire situation, and I shat on the floor out of pure fear. Near the end, I was forced to listen to his death rattle, a sound which will haunt me to my dying day. And until Marty arrived, I thought I might be doomed as well. But Marty arrived, and, being unable to get in Richie's room, called the police, and when they broke down the door, I ran out, ashamed of bearing witness to Richie's death, ashamed that I had shat on the floor. Richie is dead, I'm sorry to say—he was a good boy and you failed him, and then you had him burned and scattered the evidence. Pull yourselves together!"
"You have spoken a terrible truth," said Richie's father.
"Yes you have," said Richie's mother.
"We failed him," said Richie's sister.
"Yes we did," said Richie's brother.
They all bowed their heads and sank into abject contemplation. Meanwhile, from the dog's bed, deep within the dog's brain, Richie was silently observing them through rheumy eyes.
The truth is, upon his death, Richie's essence—that strange, mysterious substance we know so little about—flew into his dog, although the change was, to the dog, imperceptible. Therefore, it seems to me that, in this particular case, neither the family nor the dog was entirely wrong.