I hated that dog.  

I remember the look on my wife’s face when she brought it home, the kids’ faces smiling up at it with joy. At first, I was fine with it. It was cute anyways. A golden brown beagle with a white spot on the end of its tail. They even named it after me. But then as I got closer to the little thing, it began to bark ferociously, its teeth bared and snarling into a grotesque scowl. After that moment, I stayed far away from that tiny monster.  

Or at least I tried. But it just wouldn’t go away. The dog would jump up on the couch late into the night, the place where, after work, I would always go to sit and relax. Then, when we went out for family walks, that stupid dog would walk right beside my wife, not leaving her side the entire time. But the thing that would tick me off the most was when it decided to crawl into the bed, sleeping where I normally slept. That was the moment I realized that this dog was the worst thing that has ever walked the earth.  

Then something weird happened. One night, my wife was crying in the dead of night, her soft weeping barely louder than the squeak of a mouse. Most nights when she was like this, I would try to whisper in her ear, muttering that I was here and that she was going to be alright and eventually, the crying would come to an end and drift her back to sleep.  

But this time, that treacherous dog came running down the hall, jumping up into my wife’s arms. I watched as she cradled it like it was a newborn baby, whispering things into its hairy little head.  

“I miss him,” I caught her murmur.  

I looked in awe, taken aback by what she had just admitted. With all my comfort I had never been able to get her to say that before.  

After that night, things were a bit better. And I had finally realized why the dog had been named after me.  

John the dog was the only part of me they had left to hold on to since I died.  

And John was doing a great job of that. Maybe I didn’t hate that dog so much after all.