My mother had told me that one of Dad’s many admirers attending his remembrance had a service dog that liked to sing. She had come to pay final tribute to my Dad – the common man’s common man – accompanied by said singing dog. It seemed a casual enough comment until the church broke into the first hymn and from the back a howling rose in volume and tone along with the song. In the first pew I smiled to myself finding comfort and joy in the fact that this dog was happily joining us in celebrating my Dad. Mom had done such a beautiful job with the music. It suited him. And when the entire church sang America the Beautiful (along with the Dog) I thought of how much he would have loved it. It is a perfect memory that I will cherish always.
Shortly thereafter during a peak walk in Hong Kong with my friend SW, I turned a corner to find this dog sitting atop the stairs looking at me. It was startling. This white dog. A Ghost dog. A coincidence? I think not.
It was as though he was there to make me reflect on the moments in the chapel and to let me know that I was being watched over. He looked straight into my eyes with a clarity and focus that stopped my breath and filled me with glorious wonder.