Do you believe in ghosts?

I lived in Bogotá nigh on two years. I played here. I sang. I sniffed the air, drank the water, heard the chapel bell. I leapt onto dirt mounds, sailed through the air, darted up cliffs, made the ridgebacks howl. I battled the gatica. I chased Squeak: I sometimes brought it back.

I’m gone now. One last trip lies before me: over the rainbow bridge.

Five moons on, the folk see my sister with my people and ask, “Where is the black dog?” They are many.

I touched them all.

Now do you believe in ghosts?

(note, a gatica in Spanish is a female cat, in the affectionate diminutive)

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