My dog died last night...

The girls were in bed.  The house was quiet.  Too quiet...

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.