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- Story Listed as: True Life For Kids
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 03/09/2017
Spot
Born 1940, M, from Kent - garden of England, United KingdomSpot.
As a baby I was often put on the back of my grandmothers pet dog Spot, by my aunts, to give me a ride. This amused my aunts a lot and I can just remember this myself. I grew up with the dog as part of the family, and at about the age of eight I would play with my younger cousins and Spot at my grandmothers house. We often played in the garden and I got used to raising the sash of the bay window to climb into the house. Spot was a great favourite with us kids, all children love a dog as a friend and playmate, and Spot could perform a few neat tricks which we kids had taught him. The dog was getting old however, by the time I was eight, so we were careful not to get him to do more than he could, and anyway, he now spent a lot of time just curled up in his basket, watching us as we played and rolling on his back for a tummy tickle when we spoke to him. He was a lovely pet.
One afternoon we were in the garden digging out tunnels for our toy soldiers to explore, and to hide our little tin cars in, at the bottom of grandmama's garden. Like all kids, the need to keep playing to the very last moment was much more important than doing the essential things. Suddenly my cousin started jumping up and down and shouting "I need to pee, I need to pee, now, now, now, let me indoors".
I rushed to the window and, raising the sash, climbed into the house and jumped down onto the sofa in the bay window, patting Spot on the head as I did so, and he licked my hand as usual. Running to the front door to let young Michael in, I suddenly felt a deep chill go down my spine as I turned the small knob on the lock. I felt my hair rise on my neck as I suddenly remembered that Spot had died the previous Sunday, and was now buried in the garden, but I swear to this day that I patted that dog on the head and he licked my hand in return as I went to the door.
I still have photos of spot somewhere, I inherited them when my parents died. There is even one picture of me riding on his back supported by my aunt. A rather scruffy white rough haired mongrol dog with a black patch on his body, but a lovely pet and one who will be forever with me in my memories.
This is a completely true story from my childhood near Chislehurst, Kent.
Copyright retained - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2017
All intellectual rights retained by author
Reproduction only with specific permission.
Spot(Ken DaSilva-Hill)
Spot.
As a baby I was often put on the back of my grandmothers pet dog Spot, by my aunts, to give me a ride. This amused my aunts a lot and I can just remember this myself. I grew up with the dog as part of the family, and at about the age of eight I would play with my younger cousins and Spot at my grandmothers house. We often played in the garden and I got used to raising the sash of the bay window to climb into the house. Spot was a great favourite with us kids, all children love a dog as a friend and playmate, and Spot could perform a few neat tricks which we kids had taught him. The dog was getting old however, by the time I was eight, so we were careful not to get him to do more than he could, and anyway, he now spent a lot of time just curled up in his basket, watching us as we played and rolling on his back for a tummy tickle when we spoke to him. He was a lovely pet.
One afternoon we were in the garden digging out tunnels for our toy soldiers to explore, and to hide our little tin cars in, at the bottom of grandmama's garden. Like all kids, the need to keep playing to the very last moment was much more important than doing the essential things. Suddenly my cousin started jumping up and down and shouting "I need to pee, I need to pee, now, now, now, let me indoors".
I rushed to the window and, raising the sash, climbed into the house and jumped down onto the sofa in the bay window, patting Spot on the head as I did so, and he licked my hand as usual. Running to the front door to let young Michael in, I suddenly felt a deep chill go down my spine as I turned the small knob on the lock. I felt my hair rise on my neck as I suddenly remembered that Spot had died the previous Sunday, and was now buried in the garden, but I swear to this day that I patted that dog on the head and he licked my hand in return as I went to the door.
I still have photos of spot somewhere, I inherited them when my parents died. There is even one picture of me riding on his back supported by my aunt. A rather scruffy white rough haired mongrol dog with a black patch on his body, but a lovely pet and one who will be forever with me in my memories.
This is a completely true story from my childhood near Chislehurst, Kent.
Copyright retained - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2017
All intellectual rights retained by author
Reproduction only with specific permission.
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