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His War Dog She reappeared at his command thirteen years later, one of over fifty thousand ghosts seeking post. Collage of family life adopted yellowed grass, parched earth, army green fatigues kneeling next to a German Shepherd named Dawn. My father’s pale veined hand crowned her head how mine grounded a black-and-white checkered soccer ball several frames away.
I knew of other pictures like this, sealed in a photo album. Group shots of shirtless soldiers, assured faces of Vietnamese, him sitting next to a celebratory cake, Welcome Home Mike. Vivid gels depicted a lighthearted, sugary journey: fighter planes flew across sweet white icing, men beamed jumping from aircraft, parachutes blossomed in cloudless sky as innocuous tiger lilies.
His war dog waited beside the uniform hanging limp, lifeless, from thick gold hanger. I heard barking, not thunder, when the heavens flashed purple-black, when they filled with aerial gurneys of electro-shock patients raising arms in a Frankenstein-way, each jolt breaking bones, screams reaching those listening. He slipped into starched folds, stroked her head, ordered her to stay.
I was too young to understand war, old enough to know he left her behind, again. After he died, she spent most nights panting beside my bed, eyes glowing, two full moons lodged in head.
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