I get up to get myself a tasty beverage, and step over the dog. My foot brushes him.
Something is not right. His body is too still. His leg is sticking up in an unnatural position.
I squat beside him. Put my hand on his chest. No movement can be felt. His heavy breathing has stilled. He is much too quiet.
I scratch his head - no reaction.
I shake him - nothing
I shake him violently, and yell his name - he remains still. Too still.
It hits me. My dog is dead!
My mind starts racing. My husband is gone for the week - how do I break it to him? How do I tell my children? What do I do with the body? Who do I call for help?
I breathe deeply, trying to hold in my grief. Apparently I loved this slobbering oaf more than I realized.
I get up from beside his still body, trying to remain calm. I search for the phone, having decided to call my brother-in-law for help.
Before I dial, something compels me to turn around. And there, sitting and staring at me in complete silence is the dog, very much not dead.
I squeal in delight, pet him, tell him what a good boy he is, and give him a treat simply for being alive.
But as I reflect, I wonder - is he really alive? Or are zombies real, and a canine version is living in my house.
