My husband’s grandpa cared for his wife through many years of Alzheimers. She mostly existed, unresponsive, in a chair in the front room, slowly losing the ability to even breathe or swallow. I imagine she suffered a lot, unable to function in a shell that was determined to rid itself of her and living with a caretaker who had to watch that decline and grew frustrated as slowly, slowly his wife became less and less. When he finally decided to release her, she was given no food or water in order to facilitate her passing, and then, finally, she was gone. He stayed in the house for a few more years until my husband and I decided to purchase it from him, after which he left for Florida.
Our first move as new homeowners was to get a dog, a black lab puppy whose previous owners had returned because she had too much energy. They weren’t wrong, but we’d already fallen in love and thus accepted our doom. She wanted to play 12 hours a day, destroyed any toy that wasn’t solid rubber, and had no concept of how much damage her teeth and claws could cause. Toys were ripped to shreds and any attempt to tire her out just made her stronger. We spent hours throwing her ball up the stairs and if we left she would choose destruction: books, my oil paints, a painting, remotes, the couch, tools, shoes, other art supplies, the rug, two lamps, the wood frame of the door . . . We’d put down cayenne pepper, lemon, anything with a gross taste, but it didn’t matter, she’d eat it anyways. Eventually we just resorted to food-wrapper decoys, which only partially quelled her urges for obliteration, but it was something, at least. So when her favorite rubber ball went missing we just assumed she somehow (nevermind the exact ‘how’ you would ask of normal creatures) ripped it apart and we’d find the pieces eventually.
Meanwhile, I could feel something . . . off about the house. Sometimes it felt like I was being watched, staying up late I would get a chill, the place would smell like sandalwood (his grandma’s favorite smell, my husband later told me), and it just felt, well, sad and lonely. I voiced my disquiet but my husband dismissed me, he didn’t sense anything weird and ghosts aren’t real, anyways. Obviously.
And then one night our dog, locked in the bedroom with us, started barking, practically yelling for us to wake up, wake up, something’s wrong. Usually I, the light sleeper, would be up immediately, but instead it was my husband, usually so deep asleep it was like he was dead, who groggily awakened. My dog started pawing at the bedroom door, desperate to get out, and he dragged himself up and opened it. She rushed into the living room, still barking, her attention now focused on our much-used, constantly-searched-under coffee table. My husband then watched as her missing ball rolled out from underneath it, as if some lonely old woman was playing fetch. Our dog grabbed the ball and ran back into the bedroom and he quickly followed, slamming the door shut.
Once he told me, I opened all the windows and doors and told his grandma, kindly and politely, that we were sorry but it was time to leave, even if we appreciated her help in keeping the dog entertained. We haven’t smelled sandalwood since, but somehow my husband still doesn’t believe in ghosts.
My husband’s grandpa cared for his wife through many years of Alzheimers. She mostly existed, unresponsive, in a chair in the front room, slowly losing the ability to even breathe or swallow. I imagine she suffered a lot, unable to function in a shell that was determined to rid itself of her and living with a caretaker who had to watch that decline and grew frustrated as slowly, slowly his wife became less and less. When he finally decided to release her, she was given no food or water in order to facilitate her passing, and then, finally, she was gone. He stayed in the house for a few more years until my husband and I decided to purchase it from him, after which he left for Florida.
Our first move as new homeowners was to get a dog, a black lab puppy whose previous owners had returned because she had too much energy. They weren’t wrong, but we’d already fallen in love and thus accepted our doom. She wanted to play 12 hours a day, destroyed any toy that wasn’t solid rubber, and had no concept of how much damage her teeth and claws could cause. Toys were ripped to shreds and any attempt to tire her out just made her stronger. We spent hours throwing her ball up the stairs and if we left she would choose destruction: books, my oil paints, a painting, remotes, the couch, tools, shoes, other art supplies, the rug, two lamps, the wood frame of the door . . . We’d put down cayenne pepper, lemon, anything with a gross taste, but it didn’t matter, she’d eat it anyways. Eventually we just resorted to food-wrapper decoys, which only partially quelled her urges for obliteration, but it was something, at least. So when her favorite rubber ball went missing we just assumed she somehow (nevermind the exact ‘how’ you would ask of normal creatures) ripped it apart and we’d find the pieces eventually.
Meanwhile, I could feel something . . . off about the house. Sometimes it felt like I was being watched, staying up late I would get a chill, the place would smell like sandalwood (his grandma’s favorite smell, my husband later told me), and it just felt, well, sad and lonely. I voiced my disquiet but my husband dismissed me, he didn’t sense anything weird and ghosts aren’t real, anyways. Obviously.
And then one night our dog, locked in the bedroom with us, started barking, practically yelling for us to wake up, wake up, something’s wrong. Usually I, the light sleeper, would be up immediately, but instead it was my husband, usually so deep asleep it was like he was dead, who groggily awakened. My dog started pawing at the bedroom door, desperate to get out, and he dragged himself up and opened it. She rushed into the living room, still barking, her attention now focused on our much-used, constantly-searched-under coffee table. My husband then watched as her missing ball rolled out from underneath it, as if some lonely old woman was playing fetch. Our dog grabbed the ball and ran back into the bedroom and he quickly followed, slamming the door shut.
Once he told me, I opened all the windows and doors and told his grandma, kindly and politely, that we were sorry but it was time to leave, even if we appreciated her help in keeping the dog entertained. We haven’t smelled sandalwood since, but somehow my husband still doesn’t believe in ghosts.