THREE IRISH WOLFHOUNDS AND THE SEASON OF SPIRITS

A Tale of Ancient Traditions, Mischief, Mystery, and Magic

Hooligan was under the bed, or as far beneath it as an eight-month-old Irish Wolfhound could reasonably get. His long body was wedged under the frame, his enormous paws clamped over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut. Clover lay beside the bed with her head and shoulders pushed underneath, trying to coax her younger brother back into the room. She had just pushed his favorite stuffed toy, Pig, under the bed, hoping it might bring him some comfort.    Each time she spoke his name, she got the same answer: a muffled, miserable refusal. Shamrock stood behind her, his great pale head lowered toward the narrow gap. He tried asking Hooligan to come out, too, but the younger hound opened one eye, saw him, and promptly shut it again.

Clover backed out, looking helplessly at her older brother. Shamrock lay down to bring himself closer to Hooligan's level, waited a moment, and then turned to Clover. They needed someone Hooligan would listen to even when he was determined not to listen to anyone. “Go get Mom,” he said.

Clover stared at him.

“Now.”

**********

 Three Days Earlier

It was a bright October afternoon, the kind that made the changing leaves seem even brighter against the blue sky. Their dad was busy with chores farther across the yard while their mom sat in the grass beside several large plastic containers she had pulled from the storage shed. Clover and Hooligan were helping. Or, at least, they believed they were helping. The two young Irish Wolfhounds inspected every container before it could be opened. Every lid had to be sniffed once it came off. And anything their mom pulled out required immediate examination by two enormous noses.

This was Hooligan's first Halloween. At just eight months old, the young Irish Wolfhound was a whirlwind of enthusiasm, curiosity, and spectacular mischief. With his shaggy wheaten-brindle coat, enormous paws, and expressive face, he approached absolutely everything in life at full speed and with his whole heart. Beneath all that boundless energy was an extraordinarily sweet, sensitive little soul who loved fiercely and felt everything deeply. His name suited him perfectly.

Clover, his older half-sister, was a striking black Irish Wolfhound with touches of white on her chest, toes, and the tip of her tail. Nearly a year older than Hooligan, she had already experienced one Halloween and considered herself considerably more knowledgeable about these things. Confident, clever, and occasionally mischievous in her own right, Clover had a remarkable ability to assess a situation before deciding whether to participate, investigate, or simply demand a belly rub. She was affectionate, independent, and quite certain that she knew what she was doing—even when she didn't.

At the edge of the yard, a great gray Irish Wolfhound appeared quietly among the October leaves.

Shamrock.

Nearly 36 inches tall at the shoulder and weighing more than two hundred pounds in life, he was an extraordinary sight. His great, shaggy head, powerful frame, and long, commanding silhouette gave him an almost ancient appearance, as though he belonged to another time. Yet there was nothing threatening in the way he watched his family. His presence was calm and assured, his eyes gentle and knowing. He had always been their sentinel, a watchful guardian who took his responsibility seriously, but whose enormous heart was every bit as remarkable as his size.

Nearly two years had passed since his death, but death hadn't kept him from the family he loved. He had returned to them for America's 250th birthday on July 4th, and again for the 25th anniversary of September 11th. Now, as Halloween approached, Shamrock had come home once more.

For a moment, no one noticed him. Their dad continued with his chores. Their mom dug through the containers, pulling out one Halloween decoration after another while Clover and Hooligan investigated each one. Hooligan had his nose buried in one of the totes, watching closely as their mom moved things around. The great Wolfhound stood quietly and watched them. Then his eyes settled on their mom. Slowly, he sat.

A breeze moved through the yard, stirring the fallen leaves and carrying her scent toward him. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as it washed over him. His tail began to wag. For a few quiet seconds, he simply sat there with his eyes closed, breathing her in.

Their mom opened another container and began digging through it. “Nope.”

She pushed it aside and reached for another. “I know it's in here somewhere.” Hooligan leaned over the edge beside her, watching closely as she moved things around. His shaggy wheaten-brindle face followed her hands back and forth. A smiling pumpkin appeared. Then a little black cat wearing a purple witch's hat. Then several strings of orange lights. Their mom put them all aside. Across the yard, their dad arrived carrying a tall, folded bundle of decorations and asked Clover to give him room to set it down. Clover immediately planted herself in the exact spot he needed, convinced that her supervision was indispensable.

Their dad stepped to the left. Clover stepped with him. He tried the right, and she followed again, tail sweeping the grass. “Clover Bean, I love you, but you're making this harder,” he told her, laughing as he finally managed to lower the bundle. Hooligan watched with great interest. Apparently, the secret to helping their dad was to stand very close and move whenever he moved. He hurried over to join Clover, leaving their dad surrounded by two enormous, enthusiastic assistants.

Their mom glanced up from her search, took in the scene, and laughed. “You're getting plenty of help over there.”

Their dad looked at the pair of expectant faces. “More than I know what to do with.”

Their mom was still digging. She moved a plastic skeleton out of the way. Then stopped. “There it is!” Hooligan's ears lifted. Whatever she had found must be something wonderful. Their mom was smiling. He moved closer. She reached deeper into the container and pulled out a clown. Hooligan's ears dropped. It had a white face, a wide red mouth and a smile that seemed much too large. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was already fairly certain he didn't like it. Their mom turned it around in her hands.

“I wonder if the batteries are still good.” Hooligan leaned over her shoulder. She found a small switch and flipped it. The clown's eyes suddenly glowed red. An evil laugh burst from somewhere inside it. Then, in a low, creepy voice, it said: “TRICK... OR... TREAT...” Hooligan shot backward. His rear end slammed into the container behind him. The container tipped. Plastic pumpkins, fake bones and several very surprised-looking ghosts spilled across the grass. Hooligan stumbled over them, scrambled back to his feet and spun around to run.

He made it exactly one step. WHUMP. He ran face-first into something enormous. Hooligan froze. Slowly, he looked up. And up. And up. A huge, pale Irish Wolfhound stood over him. Hooligan's eyes widened. “Shamrock!” For a moment, the clown was forgotten. Hooligan threw himself against the older Wolfhound, his tail whipping happily behind him. Shamrock laughed and lowered his great head to nuzzle him.

“Hello, Hooligan.”

Clover's head snapped around. “SHAMROCK!” She raced across the yard.

Shamrock barely had time to brace himself before Clover crashed happily into his other side.

“You're here!”

“I am.”

Clover buried her face against his neck. Shamrock had been gone from their family for a long time—since before either of the young hounds had come into the world. Neither Clover nor Hooligan had known Shamrock when he was alive. Clover was Shamrock’s younger half-sister and Hooligan’s older half-sister; Hooligan and Shamrock were cousins through their mothers. And here he was, standing in the yard with them again.

Neither pup completely understood how. They only knew that his visits never seemed to last long enough.

“I missed you,” Clover said.

“I missed you too,” Shamrock told her.

“So did I,” Hooligan added, pushing his way farther into the reunion.

Shamrock laughed. “I missed both of you.” For a few moments, the three Wolfhounds were a tangle of long legs, wagging tails and happy noses. Then Clover stepped back.

“What are you doing here?”

Hooligan looked up at him. “Yeah. Why did you come?”

Shamrock looked at Clover and Hooligan, his expression softening. “I wish I could tell you why I’m here, but the truth is, I don’t know. I think my visits on the Fourth of July and September 11 had something to do with those very special anniversaries, but I can’t say for certain. What I do know is that every chance I get to see you, to be with our mom and dad, and to be part of our family again is a gift I’m grateful for beyond anything I could ever explain.”

He glanced between them, smiling. “So I don’t think we should spend our time worrying about why I’m here or how long I might stay. Those are questions none of us can answer. What matters is that we’re together right now.”

Shamrock lowered his great head toward the two younger hounds. “Sometimes, the best thing we can do is simply be where our paws are. Enjoy what’s right in front of us, for as long as it lasts.”

Clover considered his words thoughtfully. Hooligan, meanwhile, looked down at his enormous paws, apparently checking that they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Hooligan considered this. He had approximately seventeen questions ready, and every single one of them seemed terribly important.

Before he could ask even one, an evil laugh erupted behind him. Hooligan jumped, whirling toward the sound. The clown's eyes were glowing red again. Their mom quickly switched it off.

“Yep. Still works.”

Hooligan moved behind Shamrock. Their dad looked at the clown. His smile disappeared. “Do we have to put that thing out?”

Their mom looked genuinely surprised. “Of course we do.” Their dad stared at her. Hooligan peeked around Shamrock. Finally. Someone in this family was making sense. Their mom carried the clown toward the house. Hooligan watched it go.

“Dad doesn't like it either.”

“No,” Shamrock said. “It doesn't appear that he does.”

Hooligan stood a little taller. Clover rolled her eyes. “It's just a decoration.”

Hooligan was delighted to have found an ally in their dad, who seemed every bit as suspicious of the clown as he was. Clover insisted they were both being ridiculous, but Hooligan noticed that she had no intention of volunteering to carry the thing into the house. Shamrock watched the argument unfold with an amused expression and wisely kept his opinion to himself.

By late afternoon, the yard had changed. Orange lights wound along the porch railing. Smiling pumpkins sat beside pots of autumn flowers. Friendly ghosts hung from tree branches, fluttering whenever the breeze moved through them. Hooligan liked those. He especially liked the little wooden sign their mom pushed into the ground near the walkway. Three smiling ghosts peeked over the top of it beneath the words HAPPY HALLOWEEN. Then their dad carried a skeleton across the yard. Hooligan watched him.

“Why does that one have no skin?”

Clover sighed. “It's a skeleton.”

“I know. Why is it in our yard?”

Their dad sat the skeleton in a chair beside the porch and crossed one bony leg over the other. Hooligan stared. Shamrock came to stand beside him. “I think it's supposed to be funny.” Hooligan looked at the skeleton. Then at Shamrock.

“Is it?”

Shamrock studied it. “I haven't decided.”

Their mom emerged from the house carrying a smiling witch. A few minutes later, their dad hung something from a tree that appeared to be trying to escape from a grave. Hooligan's brow furrowed. Some of Halloween was cheerful. Some of Halloween appeared to be dead. Some of Halloween was apparently dead but cheerful about it. He was beginning to find the entire holiday confusing.

Hooligan watched their mom set the smiling witch beside the porch and looked from it to the skeleton their dad had settled in a chair. He had spent the afternoon trying to understand why the same celebration required cheerful pumpkins, dangling ghosts, and a fellow with no skin. Clover told him that Halloween had always been a little strange.

“Not always in quite this way,” Shamrock said, watching an orange leaf cartwheel past the skeleton's feet. “A long time ago, before anyone could buy a plastic skeleton or a laughing clown, the end of October meant something very different to people living on the land.”

Their dad carried the last of the decorations toward the house while Clover looked around the yard. “What did they celebrate before there were pumpkins and skeletons?”

“In Ireland,” Shamrock began, “there was an old festival called Samhain. It marked the turning of the seasons, when the harvest was ending and winter was approaching. Animals were brought back from their summer grazing, and families prepared for the colder months ahead.”

“And that’s where Halloween began?” Clover asked.

“It’s part of the story,” Shamrock replied. “But Halloween has a long history, and not all of its traditions came from the same place. There are several names you’ll hear around this time of year. Samhain is one of them. There’s also All Hallows’ Eve, which is closely connected to Halloween, and All Saints’ Day, which comes the following day. Then there’s the Day of the Dead, or Día de Muertos, a Mexican tradition with its own history and meaning.”

Hooligan considered this information with growing concern. “How many holidays are we having?”

Shamrock chuckled. “Our family only celebrates Halloween. I’m just telling you about some of the other traditions associated with this time of year. They aren’t all the same, even when their dates or customs overlap.”

“Oh,” Hooligan replied, visibly relieved. “Because I wasn’t sure we had enough decorations.”

Hooligan looked at the pots of flowers and the pumpkins on the steps, then at the fallen leaves collecting along the fence. He had noticed the days getting shorter and the grass growing cold beneath his paws, but it had never occurred to him that the season itself might be worth marking.

“Why was that such a big celebration?” he asked. “Winter comes every year.”

“It does,” Shamrock agreed. “But imagine living long ago, when you couldn't simply go to a shop whenever you needed something. You had to make sure there was enough food stored away to last through the winter. You needed shelter, warmth, and people willing to help one another when things became difficult.”

Clover considered that. “So it wasn't just celebrating that the harvest was finished. They were making sure everyone was ready for what came next.”

“Exactly. And when the work was done, there was comfort in gathering together. A warm fire, a good meal, stories shared with family and friends. Those things meant a great deal when the nights grew long.”

Hooligan glanced toward the house. “We have a warm fire. And good meals.”

“We certainly do,” Clover said.

“And we have each other,” Shamrock added.

Hooligan's expression softened. He looked at Clover, then at Shamrock. “I think I like that part of ancient Halloween.”

“I thought you might,” Shamrock replied.

A gust of wind scattered leaves across the lawn, sending several tumbling around the skeleton's chair. Hooligan watched them settle at its feet before turning back to his older cousin.

“So where do the ghosts come in?”

Shamrock glanced toward the darkening trees. “People had many beliefs about Samhain. One was that the boundary between our ordinary world and what they called the Otherworld grew thinner at that time of year.”

Clover tilted her head. “The Otherworld?”

“In old Irish stories, it was a mysterious realm associated with supernatural beings. Some people believed that, around Samhain, spirits and other strange visitors might move more freely between the worlds.”

Hooligan looked toward the woods. “You mean they could just come wandering through?”

“That was one of the beliefs,” Shamrock answered. “And people told all sorts of stories about what might be encountered after dark.”

“Were they all frightening?” Clover asked.

“Not all of them. Some traditions were connected with remembering people who had died, particularly those who were loved and missed. It wasn't only about being afraid of spirits. It could also be about keeping someone's memory close.”

Clover was quiet for a moment. She looked at Shamrock, who stood beside them as naturally as he always had, though their mom and dad could no longer see him.

“So remembering someone was part of the celebration too?” she asked gently.

“Yes,” Shamrock said. “And that can be a very beautiful thing.”

Hooligan looked between them, thinking hard. Then his attention returned to the skeleton sitting beside the porch.

“So the skeleton isn't somebody's granddad?”

Clover gave a startled snort of laughter, and Shamrock smiled. “No. That one's a decoration. Remembering someone you love doesn't require putting their bones in a lawn chair.”

Hooligan studied the skeleton again. “Well, that's good. Because if he is somebody's granddad, I think he needs a sandwich.”

Clover burst out laughing. “A sandwich?”

“Look at him!” Hooligan protested. “He's nothing but bones!”

Shamrock lowered his head, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. “I don't think feeding him is going to help, Little Man.”

“Well, somebody ought to try.”

Clover looked toward Shamrock, but he had already turned his attention to their dad, who was wrestling an awkward bundle through the front door.

Their mom appeared in the doorway and called for their dad to help her position the last decoration. It was the mechanical clown. Their dad stopped with one foot on the porch, and Hooligan, who had been following him, stopped too. Neither seemed eager to be the first one near it. “Come on,” their mom called again, plainly unable to understand what was taking so long. Their dad went in with the resigned expression of a man who knew the argument was lost before it began. Hooligan remained outside beside Clover and Shamrock.

“He doesn't like it either,” he whispered.

“I've noticed,” Shamrock replied, amusement in his voice.

Clover gave them both a look, then followed their dad through the door.

************

Inside, their mom had chosen a place near the foot of the staircase, where anyone passing through the hall would see the clown. Their dad set it down carefully and took a step back. “Right there?” he asked. Their mom nodded, pleased with the effect.

“Everyone has to walk past it,” he observed.

“That's the idea,” she said.

Hooligan peered around the doorframe. The clown was silent, its painted smile fixed in place, and that did nothing to improve his opinion of it. Clover walked through the hall without incident and glanced back at him. Shamrock stood beside Hooligan, patient enough to wait until he was ready to try. The history of Halloween, Hooligan decided, was fascinating; the modern part still needed work.

Hooligan looked at Shamrock. Shamrock nodded toward the hallway. “Go ahead.” Hooligan took one step. Then another. The clown didn't move. He stopped.

“It's watching me.”

Barely containing her laughter, Clover looked at him. “It has plastic eyes.”

“They're still looking at me.”

Shamrock walked over and stood beside him. “Would you like me to go with you?” Hooligan nodded. Together, they started down the hallway. One step. Two. Three. The clown remained perfectly still. Hooligan began to relax. They were almost past it when their mom came around the corner. The clown's eyes flashed red. An evil laugh filled the hallway.

“TRICK... OR... TREAT...”

Hooligan spun around so fast his back feet slid out from under him. He scrambled upright and shot back the way he had come. Their dad jumped too. Clover burst out laughing. Their dad glared at the clown. “I hate that thing.” From around the corner, Hooligan peeked back into the hallway. His eyes widened.

“He jumped too!”

Clover looked at their dad and then back at Hooligan. “He did.”

Hooligan stood a little taller. “At least Dad understands.”

Shaking his head, Shamrock looked from Hooligan to their dad. “I think you may have found an ally.”

 That night, as the family prepared for bed, Clover and Hooligan looked at each other. Then they looked at Shamrock. Neither of them asked the question. They didn’t have to. Shamrock felt it anyway. Usually, his visits were short. He came, stayed for a little while, and then somehow knew when it was time to leave. Tonight, he was still there. And he wasn’t entirely sure why. Their mom and dad headed upstairs, and Shamrock sprawled out on the living room floor beside the couch. For the moment, he didn’t care why he was still with his family. He was with them. That was enough.

Clover jumped onto the couch and settled directly above him. Hooligan circled once before curling against Shamrock’s side. For a few moments, no one moved. Then all three hounds let out a long sigh at exactly the same time. They looked at one another. Shamrock smiled. Clover’s tail gave a sleepy thump against the couch. Hooligan tucked himself a little closer against Shamrock’s side. Then they closed their eyes. And for the first time, the three of them fell asleep together. As a family.

Sometime later, Hooligan opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. For a moment, he lay quietly against Shamrock’s side. Clover was still asleep on the couch above them. Then Hooligan saw the clown. It stood silently near the bottom of the stairs. Its eyes were dark. It wasn’t laughing. It wasn’t moving. Hooligan stared at it. The clown did nothing. He still didn’t like it. Sleeping near Mom and Dad suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Very carefully, Hooligan got to his feet. He picked up Pig, who had been lying on the floor beside him. If he was going to sleep with Mom and Dad, Pig, his most beloved stuffed toy, was coming too. He stepped around Shamrock. He glanced once more at the clown and quietly made his way upstairs without waking either of the other dogs.

Sometime later, Clover shifted in her sleep. One of her paws slipped over the edge of the couch and came to rest squarely on top of Shamrock’s head. Shamrock didn’t move. A few minutes later, Ginger wandered into the living room. She stopped. The clown stood near the bottom of the stairs. Ginger looked at it. Then she walked toward it. Whether what happened next was an accident was something only Ginger would ever know. She passed directly in front of the clown. Its eyes flashed red. An evil laugh exploded through the dark house.

“TRICK... OR... TREAT...” Clover’s eyes flew open. For one frozen second, she stared into the clown’s glowing red eyes. Then she was gone. Her paw disappeared from Shamrock’s head as she launched herself off the couch and scrambled for the stairs. Shamrock’s head jerked up. Clover was already halfway upstairs. Ginger stood in the living room, watching her go.

Clover hit the first stair at a run. Then the second. Then the third. She didn’t look back. She reached the bedroom and launched herself onto the bed. Their dad woke with a grunt as nearly one hundred and fifty pounds of terrified Irish Wolfhound landed beside him. “What the—?” Clover shoved herself against him. Their dad blinked into the darkness. Then he heard it. Faintly, from downstairs:

“TRICK... OR... TREAT...”

“Oh.”

He wrapped both arms around Clover and pulled her close. “I know, Clover Bean. You’re safe, Hunny Bunny.”

Clover pressed herself tighter against him. Their dad rubbed her neck. “That mean clown will be gone tomorrow.”

Their mom stirred beside them. “Huh? What’s happening...?”

“That clown scared Clover.”

Their mom opened her eyes just enough to look at them.

Their dad confirmed that it was the clown, and their mom, still half asleep, murmured her opinion from the other side of the bed. Neither of them sounded remotely interested in continuing the discussion, though Clover remained pressed against their dad as if he were the last safe place in the house.

Their dad lifted his head. “What?” No answer. Their mom was already asleep again.

Downstairs, Shamrock looked toward the stairs. For a moment, he considered lying back down. Then he looked at the empty couch above him. He got to his feet. As he crossed the living room, he stopped beside the clown. Its eyes were dark again. Shamrock stood looking at it, giving the painted face his full attention. The motion sensor couldn’t detect him, of course, but he still studied the thing suspiciously.

“MEEEEPPPPP!!”

Shamrock jumped four feet into the air and whipped around. Panda sat on the stairs behind him, his black-and-white face tipped up toward Shamrock, his tail quivering happily.

Shamrock stared at him. “Cats,” he muttered under his breath. “I travel all this way, just to get jump-scared by a tuxedo cat.”

Panda blinked, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Shamrock shook his head and gave the clown one last look. As Shamrock turned toward the stairs, he noticed Bird lying on the family room floor. Clover must have forgotten all about him in her frantic attempt to escape the clown. He gently picked up the little stuffed toy and carried him upstairs. When he reached the bedroom, he stopped in the doorway. Their mom was asleep on one side of the bed. Their dad lay on the other, his arms still wrapped around Clover. She had tucked herself against his chest and closed her eyes.

Shamrock looked at all of them. Shamrock walked over to the bed and gently placed Bird beside Clover. Then he turned and walked toward Hooligan, who was sound asleep on the floor below their mom, circled once and lay down beside his little cousin. Hooligan shifted in his sleep until his back rested against Shamrock’s side. Shamrock lowered his head to the floor. A few moments later, his eyes closed. The house became quiet again. 

*****************

 The clown was still there in the morning. Their mom did, however, turn off the motion sensor. “There. Now it can't scare anybody.”

Their dad looked unconvinced. Clover looked unconvinced. Hooligan looked deeply unconvinced. Their mom walked past it. Nothing happened. She walked back. Nothing. “See? Harmless.” Their dad gave the clown a suspicious look and walked away. Hooligan stared at it. Clover stared at it. The clown stared back. Finally, Clover took a step toward it. Hooligan followed. They stopped. Nothing happened.

Clover took another step. Hooligan stayed close beside her. Still nothing. They reached the clown. Its eyes remained dark. Clover glanced at Hooligan. Hooligan glanced at Clover. Then both of them exploded forward. Claws scrambled against the floor. SCRABBLE-SCRABBLE-SCRABBLE. They shot past the clown and skidded around the corner. Shamrock watched them from the other side of the room. Slowly, he looked at the silent clown. Then toward the hallway where Clover and Hooligan had disappeared. He shook his head.

“This is going to be an interesting few days.”

By afternoon, Clover had recovered enough from the previous night's incident to pretend it had never happened. Hooligan had other ideas. “You ran upstairs.”

“I went upstairs,” she countered.

Hooligan stuck his tongue out at her. “You ran.”

Clover stopped and looked at him. Hooligan's eyes were bright with amusement. “You ran really fast.”

Clover stared at him. Barely containing his own amusement, Shamrock looked away. Clover sighed dramatically. “You're not helping.”

Barely containing a laugh while trying to defend himself, he choked out, “I haven't said anything.”

Clover narrowed her eyes. Shamrock's mouth twitched. Then their mom came into the room carrying two leashes.

Both young hounds immediately forgot the argument. Clover jumped to her feet. Hooligan's entire body came alive. Their mom laughed as two enormous Irish Wolfhounds crowded around her.

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

She clipped a leash onto Clover. Clover bounced sideways. Their mom laughed and rubbed both hands over her face. “Are you excited?”

Clover's tail whipped back and forth. Their mom grabbed her cheeks gently and rocked Clover's head from side to side. “Roll me over in the Clover,” she sang. Clover leaned into her, tail thumping against the wall. Hooligan shoved his nose between them. Their mom laughed.

“Yes, you're coming too, Little Man.”

Hooligan's tail immediately began wagging. From across the room, Shamrock watched them. Clover looked over at him. “Are you coming with us?”

Shamrock smiled. “Absolutely!”

Hooligan's ears shot up. “You're coming too?”

Shamrock laughed. “I am! And I have a feeling this will be a fun adventure.”

Clover's tail began to wag furiously. Hooligan bounced toward Shamrock, nearly colliding with his chest.

“This is going to be GREAT!”

“You two!” Neither puppy stopped. “You two!”

Clover shoved her face against his neck. Hooligan bounced around his front legs. Shamrock tried again. “YOU TWO!”

Their mom looked over. Clover and Hooligan were bouncing around the empty space beside the door. She stared at them. “What are you two doing?” Clover froze. Hooligan froze. Shamrock looked at both of them. Their mom shook her head.

“Couple of weirdos.”

Shamrock looked at Clover and Hooligan. “Do you have Bird and Pig?”

Before either of them could answer, their mom picked up her keys. “Come on. Get your toys.”

Clover and Hooligan looked at Shamrock. Then at their mom. Then back at Shamrock. Shamrock smiled and gave them a wink. “It’s not my first car trip.” Clover hurried off to get Bird while Hooligan went for Pig. Their mom headed for the door, and Shamrock followed her outside.

**********************

 As the truck pulled away from the house, Hooligan watched the neighborhood pass outside the window. There were pumpkins on porches and ghosts hanging from trees. Orange lights curled around railings. A skeleton waved from someone's front yard. Apparently, Halloween was everywhere.

Hooligan looked at Shamrock. “What exactly is Halloween?” Clover turned toward them.

Shamrock smiled. “That is a much bigger question than you probably realize.”

Hooligan waited. “And before we start, remember something. Halloween is very old. The traditions grew and changed over hundreds of years, and people in different places didn’t always celebrate in exactly the same way.”

Hooligan nodded. “Okay.”

Shamrock settled back against the seat. “Remember what we talked about in the yard? Samhain, and the way people prepared for winter?”

“Yes,” Clover answered. “When having enough food and keeping warm were much bigger worries than choosing which pumpkin looked best on the porch.”

Hooligan glanced at the passing houses. “And apparently they didn't have plastic granddads sitting in lawn chairs.”

“Apparently not,” Shamrock agreed, smiling. “But there was another part of the old celebration. People believed it could be a strange time of year.”

Hooligan glanced outside at the skeletons and ghosts passing the window. “How strange?”

Shamrock’s eyes gleamed. “The dead might come home.”

Hooligan’s head snapped around. “What?”

Clover’s ears came forward. Shamrock continued. “Halloween was sometimes called ghost night or spirit night. People believed the souls of those who had died could return to their family homes.”

Hooligan stared at him. Then he looked around the truck. Then back at Shamrock. “You said the dead might come home like that was the normal part.”

Shamrock laughed. “It gets stranger. There were also fairies and other supernatural beings people believed might be moving through the countryside.”

Hooligan frowned. “Fairies?”

“Not necessarily the tiny, friendly kind you’re imagining.”

Hooligan stopped imagining them. Clover leaned closer. “What kind were they?”

“The kind people treated with respect,” Shamrock answered. “There were places people believed they might encounter them, and stories about what could happen if someone offended one.”

Hooligan considered this. “How would you know if you'd offended one?”

“Sometimes,” Shamrock said, “you wouldn't know until something unfortunate happened.”

“That's a terrible system.”

Clover laughed. “You'd probably offend one just by asking too many questions.”

“I'm trying to avoid offending one! That's why I'm asking!”

Shamrock chuckled. “We'll talk more about them later. For now, just remember that people took those stories seriously.”

Hooligan moved a little closer to Clover. Clover noticed. She said nothing. Shamrock smiled. “People also wore disguises and masks.”

Hooligan looked relieved. “Finally. Something normal.”

Clover looked at Shamrock curiously. “But why did they wear them? Were they dressing up for fun, like we're going to do?”

“Sometimes dressing up was part of the fun,” Shamrock replied. “But some of the older traditions had another purpose. Remember what we talked about earlier, when people believed spirits could cross between worlds around Samhain?”

Clover nodded. “They believed spirits and other beings could cross between the worlds.”

“Exactly. And not everyone who might come visiting was necessarily friendly. According to some traditions, people disguised themselves so that wandering spirits or supernatural beings wouldn't recognize them.”

Hooligan stared at him. “Wait. They dressed up as scary things because they were afraid of scary things?”

Shamrock chuckled. “That's one way of putting it.”

Clover considered that. “So if something from the Otherworld came looking for a person, it might not recognize them beneath a disguise?”

“That was the idea in some of the old stories. People hoped that by concealing their appearance, or even making themselves resemble supernatural beings, they could avoid unwanted attention.”

Hooligan's expression grew increasingly doubtful. “So you're telling me that if a monster came looking for me, I should dress up like another monster?”

“That's what some people believed might help,” Shamrock replied.

Hooligan looked at Clover. “What if the monster thinks I'm one of its friends?”

Clover laughed. “I suppose that would mean your disguise worked.”

“That's not what I'm worried about! What if it wants me to go home with it?”

Shamrock laughed. “Remember, Hooligan, we're talking about old beliefs and folklore. That doesn't mean monsters were actually roaming around looking for people to take home.”

Clover was still smiling, but she hadn't finished thinking about it. “I suppose wearing a disguise would have made people feel a little safer if they genuinely believed those beings were wandering around.”

“That's right,” Shamrock said. “And over time, different customs developed. Disguises became part of celebrations, performances, and neighborhood mischief. Not everyone dressed up for the same reason, and the traditions changed as they passed from one generation to the next.”

Hooligan looked thoughtful. “So people stopped hiding from monsters and started dressing up to frighten their neighbors?”

“Sometimes they made the masks frightening enough to scare their neighbors,” Shamrock replied.

Hooligan's relief disappeared. Clover laughed.

“I like that.”

“Groups of people dressed in disguise would go from house to house too,” Shamrock said. “They might entertain the people who lived there and get food or treats in return.”

Clover looked at Hooligan. Hooligan looked at Clover.

“That sounds familiar,” Clover said.

“It should.”

Hooligan thought about it. “So people were trick-or-treating?”

“Not the way you’ll do it now. But you can see pieces of the older tradition in what people do today.”

Hooligan nodded slowly. Then Shamrock added, “There were pranks too.”

Clover brightened. “What kind of pranks?”

“Knocking on doors and running away. Throwing cabbage heads at doors. Moving things people had left outside.” Hooligan blinked.

Clover could hardly believe that cabbage had once figured in Halloween mischief, and Shamrock assured her that it had. The idea of somebody arriving home to find a cabbage where it did not belong struck Hooligan as a remarkably strange way to celebrate anything.

Hooligan looked impressed. “Old Halloween was wild.”

Shamrock laughed. “It could be.”

Clover was grinning now. “What else?”

“Games,” Shamrock replied. “There were games involving apples and nuts, special foods, and even attempts to tell the future.”

Hooligan's ears shot up. “Tell the future?”

“People certainly tried.”

“Could they tell whether something bad was going to happen?”

Shamrock tilted his head. “What sort of bad thing?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe whether somebody was going to put a horrible clown in their yard and expect everyone else to be happy about it.”

Clover burst out laughing. “You don't need fortune-telling for that, Hooligan. It's already happened.”

“Exactly! A little warning would have been nice!”

Shamrock laughed. “I'm afraid the old games weren't quite that specific.”

Clover looked fascinated. “How did they work?”

Shamrock smiled. “I’ll show you some of that when we get to it.”

Hooligan leaned toward him. “What do you mean, when we get to it?”

“You’ll see.” Hooligan narrowed his eyes. Shamrock looked entirely too pleased with himself. Hooligan suddenly remembered something.

“Wait. Did those old celebrations have clowns?”

“No,” Shamrock answered.

Hooligan looked enormously relieved. “Well, then ancient Halloween was clearly better.”

“There were other things that might have frightened you,” Shamrock said. “For example, the púca.”

Hooligan's relief vanished.

Clover looked at Shamrock. “What’s a púca?”

Shamrock smiled. “Later.”

Hooligan stared at him. “You can’t say something called a púca and then say later.”

“I just did.”

Hooligan looked genuinely offended. Clover laughed. The truck slowed as their mom approached the shopping center. Hooligan looked through the windshield, then quickly back at Shamrock.

“We are coming back to the púca.”

“I had a feeling we would.”

********************

The truck turned into a parking lot. Hooligan immediately forgot about clowns, Samhain, the Otherworld, and everything that might once have wandered between worlds. He was staring at the building ahead of them. Huge orange letters stretched across the front windows. Pumpkins, ghosts, witches, skeletons and monsters crowded the displays inside. Their mom pulled into a parking space. Clover was already on her feet. Hooligan stared through the window.

“What is this place?”

Clover's tail began to wag. Their mom turned off the truck. “Come on, you two. Let's find you some costumes.”

The store was full of Halloween. Costumes hung from racks in every direction. Witches and dragons. Superheroes and monsters. Princesses, pirates, skeletons and creatures Hooligan couldn't begin to identify. Clover wanted to see everything. Their mom barely had time to get them inside before Clover was moving from one display to the next, investigating each possibility with growing excitement. Then their mom found the Pegasus. The costume was made for a large dog, with a pair of wings that rose from the back. Clover stared at it.

Her tail began to move. Their mom smiled. “Oh, I think we may have found yours, Clover.” Clover agreed completely. A few minutes later, she stood proudly in the middle of the aisle while their mom adjusted the costume around her. Their mom checked the straps beneath Clover's chest and belly, then ran her hands carefully around the edges. She made sure nothing rubbed beneath Clover's legs and that the wings were secure without interfering with her shoulders when she moved. Then she stepped back.

“Okay, Clover. Walk for me.” Clover walked. For approximately two steps. Then she began to prance. Her head came up. Her tail lifted. She stretched those long Wolfhound legs in front of her as though she had been waiting her entire life for someone to realize that ordinary walking was beneath her.

Hooligan watched her pass. “She's really happy.”

Shamrock laughed. “Yes. She is.”

Clover turned at the end of the aisle and pranced back. Their mom was laughing now too. “Very nice. Now come here so I can check those wings again.” But Clover had discovered something else. A mirror. She stopped. The black Wolfhound looking back at her wore magnificent wings. Clover stared at herself. Her tail swept happily behind her. She was beautiful.

After admiring herself for another moment, Clover turned and continued her test walk, prancing around the end of the display. Then she slowed. Across the aisle was another black Wolfhound. Wearing the same wings. Clover stopped. Her tail lowered. She sat down and stared at the other dog. “Oh.” Shamrock watched her.

Clover's ears drooped. “That dog is wearing the same costume.”

“Clover, my dear,” Shamrock said gently. “That's another mirror.”

She looked at him. “Another mirror?”

“Yes. That's another reflection of you.”

Clover turned back and took another look at the black Pegasus. She studied her for a moment. Then her ears lifted. “Well, of course that's me. A dog that gorgeous in a costume that beautiful could only be me!” Shamrock burst out laughing.

“YAY!” Clover sprang to her feet and took off. She raced around the end of the aisle, wings bouncing behind her, circled a display and came flying back toward them. “Clover!” Their mom was laughing as she went after her. “I said walk!” Clover tore past them again, tail flying. She was the only Pegasus. Everything was right with the world.

While their mom was still trying to convince a very excited Pegasus that one victory lap was enough, their dad wandered farther down the aisle. Then he stopped. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”

He pulled a costume from the rack and held it up. “Hooligan. Buddy. Look what I found.” Hooligan trotted over. He looked at the costume. Then he looked at Shamrock.

“It looks like a big turtle shell.”

Shamrock studied it. “It does a little.”

Their dad was grinning. “Oh, this is perfect. It's an Imperial Walker.”

Hooligan looked back at him. Their dad crouched down, holding the costume in front of him. “You have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, do you?” Hooligan sat down. Their dad laughed.

“Okay. Imperial Walkers. Star Wars.”

Hooligan's ears moved forward. “They're huge armored machines with four enormous legs. Really enormous. They tower over just about everything around them.”

Hooligan glanced at the costume. Their dad continued. “They're powerful. Intimidating. Covered in armor. You see one of these things coming toward you, you're getting out of the way.” Hooligan looked at Shamrock.

“It's armored?”

“So it would seem.”

Their dad pointed to the costume. “And they're scary. Not clown scary. Cool scary.”

Hooligan's tail moved. Their dad noticed. “Oh, now you're interested.” Very interested. Hooligan looked at the costume again. It didn't look like a turtle shell anymore. It looked powerful. It looked intimidating. It looked like something everyone else should get out of the way of. Hooligan stood.

“I want to be an Imperial Walker.”

Shamrock smiled. “I thought you might.”

Hooligan nudged the costume in their dad's hands. Their dad laughed. “Oh, NOW you want to try it on.” Yes. Immediately. Their dad started settling the costume over Hooligan's back. Unfortunately, Hooligan was much too excited to cooperate. “Hold still, buddy.” Hooligan tried. Their dad reached for one of the straps. Hooligan twisted around to see the costume.

“Hooligan.”

He straightened. Their dad reached underneath him. Hooligan's tail was going so hard that his entire back end was moving with it. “Buddy, you're killing me here.”

Hooligan looked at Shamrock. “How do I look?”

“It's not actually on you yet.”

Hooligan tried to look over his shoulder again. Their dad caught him. “Would you give me ten seconds?” Eventually, through persistence more than cooperation, their dad managed to fasten the last strap. The Imperial Walker sat slightly crooked across Hooligan's back. One side was a little higher than the other.

Hooligan didn't care. He stood as tall as he could. Then he took one slow, deliberate step. And another. And another. “I am an Imperial Walker.”

Shamrock watched him march down the aisle. “Yes, you are.”

Hooligan lifted his head higher. “I think I'm the best Imperial Walker ever made.” Their dad was watching too, clearly pleased with his work.

“Look at you.”

Hooligan turned and marched back toward them. Their dad grinned. “That's my boy.”

Hooligan's chest lifted. Their mom returned with Clover. She took one look at Hooligan. Then she looked at their dad. Then back at the slightly crooked Imperial Walker. Their dad shrugged. “It seemed okay to me.” Their mom gave him a look and crouched beside Hooligan. Their dad leaned toward him.

“But you know how Mom is. Safety first—even if you're a big, bad Imperial Walker.” Hooligan stood as still as he possibly could while their mom straightened the costume. This time, he actually tried. She centered it across his back, adjusted the straps, and checked that nothing rubbed or interfered with his movement. Satisfied, she stepped back.

“Okay, Little Man. Walk for me.” Hooligan's ears lifted. He began his march. One enormous step. Then another. His legs were stiff, his movements slow and exaggerated as he lumbered down the aisle.

Their mom frowned. “Hooligan?” She watched him take a few more steps, then glanced at their dad. He was grinning.

Hooligan turned at the end of the aisle and came lumbering proudly back toward them, lifting each leg with exaggerated determination. Then she realized. “Oh my God. He's doing that on purpose.”

Their dad laughed. “Of course he is. He's an Imperial Walker.”

“I look like a boss.”

Shamrock laughed. “You do.”

Their mom shook her head, laughing now too. She looked toward the sales assistant. “We'll take both costumes!” Clover's tail began to fly. Hooligan stood even taller. The Pegasus and the Imperial Walker had officially been chosen.

As their mom gathered the costumes and their dad took the leashes, Clover kept looking back at the purple wings she would wear on Halloween. Hooligan was still practicing the deliberate, heavy-footed walk of his Imperial Walker when Clover turned to Shamrock. “What did you wear for Halloween?” she asked. She had spent the afternoon imagining the possibilities for herself and her little brother; it seemed only fair to find out what their cousin had chosen.

Shamrock’s expression changed into a smile that suggested the memory was considerably funnier than anything hanging on the store racks. “A pumpkin,” he admitted. Not just any pumpkin, either: a very large, very orange one that had originally belonged to Lucy, the family’s yellow English Lab. By the time the costume was handed down to Shamrock, it had already enjoyed a full career, and he had inherited both its bright round body and its unmistakable green collar of leaves.

Hooligan studied Shamrock’s long legs and broad chest, trying to imagine how a pumpkin could possibly have accommodated all of him. Shamrock obligingly described the crowning detail: a green stem that stuck up over his head. “Like a handle?” Hooligan asked, and the image finally defeated Shamrock’s dignity. He laughed so hard that Clover joined in before she could even finish picturing it.

“You were a pumpkin with a handle!” Clover exclaimed, delighted. Shamrock could hardly argue. He remembered how ridiculous he had looked, and he remembered the enormous attention he had received. People had adored the giant pumpkin. They had admired him, laughed with their mom, and given him more treats than any sensible costume ought to have earned.

The mention of treats changed Hooligan’s assessment at once. A pumpkin with a handle might not have been as imposing as an Imperial Walker, but it was apparently a highly effective Halloween strategy. Shamrock considered that an excellent point, and Clover kept laughing all the way to the door, occasionally glancing at the top of his head as though she expected the green stem to reappear.

Their mom held the door open, calling the two young hounds along. Clover would be a Pegasus, Hooligan an Imperial Walker, and their cousin Shamrock had once been a giant orange pumpkin in Lucy’s old costume. Each had made a different choice, and each seemed thoroughly satisfied with it.

****************

 On the way home, their mom turned into the parking lot of a local garden center. Rows and rows of pumpkins covered the ground outside. Clover knew immediately why they were there; Hooligan did not. He stared at the display, then at his sister, as though somebody might explain why the entire family had suddenly developed an interest in vegetables. Clover told him they were choosing pumpkins, but kept the rest of the surprise to herself.

Hooligan wanted to know whether the surprise involved clowns. Clover assured him it did not and nudged him toward the display, where their mom and dad were already making their choices. She took her own assignment seriously, inspecting shapes, sizes, stems and colors before selecting a deep orange pumpkin with a beautiful shape and a sturdy green stem. Her tail swept happily behind her. “This one,” she announced, as though there had never been any possibility of choosing another.

Hooligan wandered among the pale cream and white pumpkins instead of following Clover's example. He passed over two nearly perfect specimens and stopped at a slightly lopsided, lumpy one that looked unlike anything else on the table. After a careful inspection and one small lick against its pale side, he made his decision. “I like this one,” he told Clover, whose smile made it clear that she approved of his choosing what pleased him instead of copying her.

Hooligan turned to Shamrock, curious about what his cousin had preferred when he was young. “Squash,” Shamrock answered, entirely without embarrassment. Clover and Hooligan exchanged a look that made him smile. “Don't judge,” he added, with a wink, and led them back toward their mom and dad.

*******

Later that evening, four pumpkins sat on the table. Clover’s beautiful orange pumpkin was beside Hooligan’s wonky white one. Hooligan gave his another approving sniff. Then their mom and dad brought out the knives and scoopers. Hooligan’s ears moved backward.

Their dad reached for Clover’s pumpkin. “All right. Let’s get these gutted.”

Hooligan froze. “Gutted?”

Clover was watching eagerly as their dad cut into the top of her pumpkin. Hooligan stared at the knife. Then at Clover’s pumpkin. Then at his own. From directly beside his ear, Shamrock murmured, “Picking squash isn’t sounding so weird right now, is it?”

Hooligan’s eyes grew enormous. Clover looked over. “Oh, right. The squash is too small to carve!” Shamrock nodded.

“Yup. Dad painted my squash. No produce got murdered on my watch.”

Hooligan’s mouth opened. “What... the...”

Clover looked at him. “He’s kidding, Hooligan.”

Hooligan blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

“The pumpkin is already dying,” Clover added. “It starts from the minute it’s picked.”

Hooligan’s head snapped toward her. Clover grinned. “Happy Halloween! We get to carve dead produce!” Her eyes suddenly lit up even brighter.

“Oh! And we get to eat the insides! They’re delicious. You’re going to LOVE them!”

Hooligan stared at her. Behind them, their mom set a large bowl on the table. “We’ll save the seeds when we gut them.” Hooligan looked at the bowl. Then at the knives. Then at his little white pumpkin. His tail had stopped wagging. Shamrock’s smile faded. He looked at Hooligan for a long moment. Then he looked at Clover. Clover followed his gaze. This time, she really looked at her little brother. Her expression changed.

She moved quietly to his side. “Hey.”

Hooligan looked at her. Her voice softened. “I know this is all new. Halloween can be a lot when you’ve never done it before.” Hooligan glanced at his pumpkin. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.”

Clover moved a little closer. “And you don’t have to have yours carved. We can leave it just the way it is.” Hooligan looked at her. Shamrock watched Clover quietly. Then he gave her a small nod.

“She’s right,” he told Hooligan. “You don’t have to do any of it.”

Hooligan looked back at his pumpkin. Shamrock lowered himself beside him. “But before you decide, have a seat.”

Hooligan sat. “Take a deep breath and listen to what I have to tell you.”

Hooligan took a breath. Shamrock glanced toward the pumpkins on the table. “People have been making lanterns at this time of year for hundreds of years. But in Ireland, they didn’t have pumpkins like these.”

Hooligan’s ears shifted forward.

Clover wondered what people had carved before pumpkins became common. Shamrock explained that turnips were often used. Other root vegetables too. People hollowed them out, carved faces into them and put lights inside.

Hooligan looked at Clover’s pumpkin again. “They carved turnips?”

“They did.” Clover sat down beside him.

Shamrock continued. “When Irish people came to America, pumpkins were much easier to find here. They were bigger, too, and a lot easier to carve. Over time, pumpkins became part of the tradition.”

Hooligan studied his little white pumpkin. “So people have been doing this for hundreds of years?”

“In different ways, yes.”

Hooligan was quiet. His eyes moved from the pumpkin to Shamrock. Then to Clover. “And if I carve mine, I’m doing it too?”

Shamrock smiled. “You are.”

Clover looked at Hooligan. “It’s tradition.”

Hooligan turned to her. “What is?”

“This.”

Clover nodded toward the table. “Carving pumpkins. Families do it together at Halloween.” Hooligan looked around the table.

Clover continued. “It’s part Irish tradition and part American tradition now. And it’s our family’s tradition too.”

Hooligan looked at their mom and dad. Then at Clover. “They do this every year?”

“Yup.”

“With you?”

“Well, I’ve only had one Halloween,” Clover admitted. “But we did it last year.” Hooligan thought about that.

“So this is something our family does.” Clover’s tail moved against the floor.

“Yup. And now you’re here, so you get to do it too.”

Hooligan looked down at his little white pumpkin. Hooligan looked at his pumpkin again. The tip of his tail began to move. “I want to carve it.”

Clover’s ears lifted. “You do?”

“Yes.”

He looked toward their mom. “But I want mine to have something from history on it.”

Hooligan did not let Clover or Shamrock watch while their mom worked on his pumpkin. He stayed beside her, watching closely while she talked through ideas and sketched them out. Whenever she suggested something he didn’t like, he simply watched. Then she tried something else. At one point Hooligan barked sharply, his tail beginning to wag. Their mom looked at him.

“Oh! Okay, Little Man. I guess you like that one.”

Their dad spread several pumpkin designs out in front of Clover, who studied each one carefully, giving them a thorough sniff. He pointed to a traditional jack-o’-lantern with a big, toothy grin. Clover looked at it, then turned away. He tried a scarier face, complete with jagged teeth and angry eyes. Clover gave him a look that seemed to say, Seriously? Then he came across a dragon design, its enormous wings spread wide. Clover’s ears immediately perked up, and she leaned forward for a closer look. “Oh, you like that one, Honey?” Their dad asked. Her tail began wagging. He held up the picture. “A dragon, huh? You sure? That’s a pretty complicated one.” Clover placed one enormous paw on his knee. Their dad laughed. “All right, all right. A dragon it is.” He studied the picture again and shook his head with a smile. “Of course. It’s got wings. First a Pegasus, now a dragon. I should’ve known.”

 Shamrock chuckled as he watched the exchange. “Of course she picked a dragon. Why settle for a pumpkin with teeth when you can have something that breathes fire?”

Hooligan nudged her hand. Whatever he had chosen, he was certain. Clover tried more than once to peek.

Hooligan blocked her. “No.”

“I just want to see.”

“You have to wait.” Even Shamrock was not allowed near the table. Eventually, their mom finished. When the last pumpkin was finished, their mom turned off the kitchen lights. Four pumpkins glowed on the table. Their mom turned hers around first. A witch grinned from the front, her pointed hat crooked over one eye.

Clover moved closer to inspect it. “She looks scary.”

“She’s supposed to,” Hooligan said.

Clover glanced at him. “I know that.”

Their mom admired her pumpkin for another moment, then nodded toward their dad. “Okay. Your turn.”

Their dad turned his pumpkin around. A vampire stared back at them, two long fangs hanging from its open mouth. Hooligan studied it. “Is that a vampire?” Shamrock nodded.

“Yup.”

Hooligan looked at the fangs. “Does it bite?”

“It’s a pumpkin.”

“I know. I’m asking about vampires.”

Shamrock looked at him. “We’ll get to that.”

Hooligan’s ears lifted. “There’s something to get to?”

Clover groaned. “Hooligan.”

“What?”

Their dad smiled and reached for the pumpkin he had carved for Clover. “Okay, Clover. Ready?” Clover was instantly on her feet. He turned her pumpkin around. A huge dragon filled nearly the entire front of it, its head raised and enormous wings stretching out on either side. Clover froze.

Then her tail started going. “Ohhhh.”

Their dad watched her reaction, grinning. “You like it, Clover?” Clover hurried closer. The dragon’s wings glowed against the dark kitchen.

“They’re HUGE!”

“I had a feeling you’d like that part,” Shamrock said.

Clover walked around the pumpkin, inspecting it from one side and then the other. “It’s beautiful.” She sat down in front of it.

“My pumpkin has a dragon.”

Hooligan came over beside her and studied the enormous glowing wings. “Dad did a really good job.”

Clover’s tail thumped against the floor. “He did.”

She looked back at her dragon. “Especially the wings.” Their mom waited until Clover had finished circling her pumpkin before reaching for the little white one she had carved with Hooligan.

“Okay, Little Man. Your turn.” Hooligan immediately sat up straighter. Clover finally pulled her attention away from her dragon. Shamrock looked over too. Their mom turned Hooligan’s pumpkin around. The light inside shone through two shapes carved into its pale surface. A large shamrock. And beside it— a smaller clover. Clover stopped moving. Shamrock did too. Hooligan looked at them. The very tip of his tail began to wag. Shamrock looked at the pumpkin. Then at Hooligan. For the first time since he had returned, he seemed to have no words at all.

Clover swallowed and sat down beside Hooligan. Her nose began to run. Hooligan looked at Clover. Then at Shamrock. His own nose began to run. Shamrock’s nose ran too. No one said anything.

Their mom turned the lights back on. She looked at Clover and Hooligan and frowned. “Why are both your noses running?” She looked from one to the other. “Oh, I hope you two aren’t getting a cold.”

Their dad glanced over. “Nah. Probably just running from the colder weather.”

He looked toward the bowl of pumpkin seeds. “I know what’ll help. Let’s roast those seeds. Come on, gang. Let’s go.” And he headed for the kitchen. The pumpkin seeds were spread across a baking sheet on the kitchen counter. Their mom sprinkled them with seasoning, tossed them around with her hands and spread them out again. Hooligan watched every bit of it. He had learned quite a lot about pumpkins that evening.

Clover stood beside him, nose lifted toward the counter. “You’re going to like them.”

Hooligan looked at the seeds. Then at Clover. “I believe you.” 

Their mom slid the tray into the oven. “There. Those will be ready in a little while.” Outside the kitchen window, a small orange glow appeared in the darkness. Their dad was building a fire. Hooligan immediately went to the window. At the edge of the yard, their dad crouched beside the fire pit, adding another piece of wood. Flames curled around it and climbed higher. Clover came up beside Hooligan.

Her tail began to wag. “Oh! We’re having a fire!”

Hooligan looked at her. “Why?”

Clover turned toward him. “Because fires are fun.” That answer apparently required no further explanation. Hooligan’s tail began to wag too.

 Their mom laughed as she walked past them. “Come on, you two. Let’s go outside.” The back door opened and cold October air rushed into the warm kitchen. Clover went through first. Hooligan followed. Shamrock walked out behind them.

**********************

By the time they went outside, their dad had the fire going. Flames curled around the logs, sending sparks twisting into the cold October air. Their mom carried the bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds while Clover and Hooligan followed her across the yard. Shamrock came behind them. Hooligan stopped beside the fire pit and held his nose toward the warmth.

“This is much better than pumpkin carving.”

Clover settled onto the grass. “You liked pumpkin carving.”

“I liked it after we stopped gutting things.”

Shamrock smiled as he sat down beside them. For a while, the three Wolfhounds were content to listen to the fire. Their parents talked quietly in their chairs, Clover stretched out near their dad's feet, and Hooligan watched the flames work their way around a log. Sparks rose into the dark like a brief, bright swarm of insects. Shamrock remembered how much of this season's old history had begun with people doing something much like this: gathering near a fire while the year turned cold.

Clover watched a shower of sparks rise above the logs. “Shamrock, did people have fires like this during Samhain?”

“They did,” he answered. “Although some of the old ceremonial fires were much larger than ours. Fire was important to people for warmth and cooking, of course, but it could also have a special meaning during festivals.”

“What kind of meaning?” Hooligan asked.

“In some traditions, fires were associated with protection and the hope of keeping harmful influences away. People also gathered around them as part of their celebrations. Think about what we discussed earlier—families preparing for winter, the nights growing longer, and everyone coming together.”

Clover looked toward their mom and dad, who were talking quietly across the flames. “I suppose a fire would have been a gathering place. Somewhere people could be together, tell stories, and feel a little safer when it was dark.”

“Exactly,” Shamrock said. “And those gatherings helped keep traditions and stories alive. Children learned about the past by listening to people who remembered it.”

Hooligan studied the flames thoughtfully. “So this is a little like what we're doing now.”

Shamrock smiled. “Very much like what we're doing now.”

Clover looked pleased by that. “Except we have roasted pumpkin seeds.”

“And a refrigerator,” Hooligan added. “Which I still think was an excellent invention.”

Shamrock laughed. “You would have been a very demanding guest at an ancient Samhain feast.”

“I would have been a hungry guest.”

“You're a hungry guest everywhere,” Clover observed affectionately.

Hooligan didn't argue.

Clover watched the flames for another moment before turning back to Shamrock. “Remember when Mom and Dad were decorating the yard, and you told us about Samhain? You mentioned several other holidays, too, including Halloween and All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve been thinking about that. Are Halloween and All Hallows’ Eve actually the same holiday?”

“In a way, yes,” Shamrock answered. “They refer to the same evening, October thirty-first, but the names tell us something about how the celebration developed. All Hallows’ Eve means the evening before All Saints’ Day, a Christian observance on November first honoring saints. Over time, the name All Hallows’ Eve was shortened to Halloween.”

“So Halloween is just another name for All Hallows’ Eve?” Clover asked.

“That’s where the name came from,” Shamrock explained. “But when people talk about All Hallows’ Eve, they’re often referring to its religious history. When they say Halloween today, they’re usually thinking about costumes, pumpkins, decorations, trick-or-treating, and all the other things we enjoy. The date is the same, but the emphasis can be different.”

Hooligan looked toward the house. “So if we call it All Hallows’ Eve, do we still get treats?”

“Yes, Hooligan.”

“And costumes?”

“Yes.”

“And pumpkin seeds?”

Shamrock laughed. “Changing the name doesn’t change what’s in the kitchen.”

“Good,” Hooligan replied. “Because I was beginning to think history was getting expensive.”

Clover smiled, then grew thoughtful again. “But where does Samhain fit into all of this?”

“That’s where things become interesting,” Shamrock said. “Remember, Samhain was an ancient Gaelic festival marking the changing seasons. Over the centuries, some older customs continued, others changed, and entirely different traditions became associated with this time of year. That's why Halloween has such a fascinating mixture of history behind it.”

“So they aren’t all the same celebration,” Clover said, “even though some of their traditions became connected.”

“Exactly. And it’s important to remember that people celebrated them for different reasons. Some were marking the changing seasons. Others were observing religious occasions. And over time, people found new ways to celebrate, remember, and tell stories.”

Hooligan considered this while staring into the fire. “I think I like the modern version.”

“Why’s that?” Clover asked.

“Because nobody’s mentioned having to gather the harvest before we’re allowed to eat.”

Shamrock chuckled. “I had a feeling you’d appreciate that particular improvement.”

A sharp noise came from the woods beyond the firelight. Their mom stopped in the middle of reaching for the bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds, her fingers hovering just above it. Their dad stopped speaking. Shamrock broke off in the middle of his explanation. Clover and Hooligan turned toward the trees at the same instant as everyone else. For several seconds, all five of them stared into the darkness, listening. Nothing moved. Nothing else sounded. At last their dad resumed what he had been saying, their mom took a handful of seeds, and the puppies settled again.

Shamrock glanced once more toward the woods before picking up his story.

“Now, do you remember what we talked about in the truck? The fairies and other beings people believed might be wandering about?”

Hooligan looked toward the trees again. “I remember you saying they could be offended without telling you what you'd done.”

“I remember you being very worried about offending one,” Clover said.

“I still am.”

Shamrock smiled. “Well, there were certain places in Ireland that people associated with the fairy folk. Ancient mounds, old earthworks sometimes called fairy forts, and even particular trees. People could be very reluctant to disturb them.”

Clover considered that. “Were those places actually built for fairies?”

“No. Many of the old earthworks were made by people long before the stories about fairies became attached to them. But as generations passed, those places became part of local folklore.”

“So people could know that something had been built a very long time ago without knowing exactly who had built it or why,” Clover said.

“That's right. And when something has stood for centuries, people often develop stories to explain it.”

Hooligan glanced toward the woods. “What happened if somebody disturbed one?”

“Different stories gave different answers. Some warned of misfortune, illness, or other troubles. Whether people believed every detail or not, those stories could make them very careful about damaging certain places.”

Clover nodded slowly. “And I suppose leaving an old tree or mound alone isn't such a bad thing anyway. Even if there aren't any fairies living there.”

Shamrock looked at her approvingly. “That's a very good observation.”

Hooligan thought about this for a moment. “So what about the púca? You promised we'd come back to that.”

“I had a feeling you wouldn't forget.”

“You said it like it was something I should be worried about.”

“Not necessarily,” Shamrock replied. “The púca is a creature from Irish folklore, and the stories about it vary quite a bit. One of its most interesting qualities is that it can change its appearance.”

Clover lifted her head. “A shapeshifter?”

“Exactly. In different tales, it might appear as a horse, a goat, a dog, or something else entirely.”

Hooligan's ears perked up. “A dog?”

“A dog,” Shamrock confirmed.

“Would you know it wasn't really a dog?”

“Not always, according to the stories. And the púca wasn't described in exactly the same way everywhere. Sometimes it was mischievous, sometimes frightening, and occasionally it could even be helpful.”

Clover looked intrigued. “So it wasn't simply a monster. It had a personality, and you couldn't necessarily predict what it would do.”

“Precisely,” Shamrock answered. “That's one reason the stories are so entertaining.”

Hooligan leaned toward Clover and lowered his voice. “You know that funny little dog next door? The one that stares at us through the bushes and trees, and then runs away sideways? What if he’s not actually a dog? What if he’s a púca?”

Clover tried to hold it in, but a laugh escaped before she could bury her face in her paws. Shamrock turned his head away, smiling. Hooligan looked between them.

“What? I’m just saying we should keep an eye on him.”

Clover lifted her head again. “Hooligan, he's been doing that since before you even knew what a púca was.”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“No,” Shamrock agreed, his eyes bright with amusement. “But I wouldn't accuse the neighbor's dog of being a supernatural creature just yet.”

Hooligan considered that. “Fine. But if he suddenly turns into a horse, I expect an apology.”

Clover laughed again, and even Shamrock couldn't quite contain himself.

Hooligan was still studying the dark edge of the yard when Shamrock spoke again.

“And you know, not every custom at this time of year was about frightening things away.”

Clover turned back toward her brother. “We talked earlier about remembering people who had died. Was there anything families actually did for them?”

“There was,” Shamrock answered. “In some traditions, people might set aside food, or even a place at home, in remembrance of someone who had died. It was a way of keeping them part of the family, even when they could no longer sit at the table.”

Clover glanced across the flames at their mom and dad, their faces warm in the light.

“Even though they couldn't see them anymore,” she said quietly.

Shamrock looked at her. “Yes.”

She was silent for a moment before asking, “Did people do that because they believed their loved ones might really come home, or because they wanted to remember them?”

“Sometimes the beliefs and the remembrance were closely connected,” Shamrock answered. “Different families understood their customs in different ways. But I think the important part is that the people they loved still mattered to them.”

Hooligan had been listening quietly. “So setting a place for somebody wasn't pretending they were still there?”

“Not necessarily,” Shamrock said. “It could be a way of saying they were still remembered. That they still belonged.”

Clover looked back toward the fire. “I like that.”

“So do I,” Shamrock said softly. “Love doesn’t simply disappear because someone is gone.”

Clover glanced across the flames at their mom and dad, then moved a little closer to Shamrock. She was glad he was here, and she didn’t need to ask him to explain it.

For a little while, nobody spoke. The fire shifted, a log settled into the glowing embers, and their dad reached over to rest a hand against Clover's back. She leaned into his touch without moving away from Shamrock.

Eventually, Clover lifted her head.

“Were there any traditions that weren’t quite so serious?”

Shamrock smiled. “Plenty. Remember the games I mentioned in the truck? Apples, nuts, and people trying to discover what the future might hold?”

Hooligan immediately looked interested. “Can we finally find out how they worked?”

“We can,” Shamrock replied. “Some people bobbed for apples in tubs of water, trying to catch one with their teeth. Others hung apples on strings and tried to bite them without using their hands.”

Hooligan looked impressed. “That sounds like a game I could win.”

“You’d have competition,” Clover told him.

Hooligan looked at her. “You think you could beat me?”

“I think I've seen you try to catch things that were sitting perfectly still.”

“That was different.”

“Of course it was,” she said sweetly.

Shamrock smiled. “There were other games involving apples, too. In some traditions, people peeled an apple in one long strip and tossed the peel over a shoulder. They hoped the shape it made when it landed might resemble the first letter of a future sweetheart's name.”

Clover's ears lifted. “Really? That's rather sweet.”

“Unless the peel broke,” Hooligan said.

Clover glanced at him. “I imagine you would eat the apple before you ever finished peeling it.”

“Probably.”

Shamrock laughed. “Nuts were used in some fortune-telling games as well. People might place them near a fire and watch how they burned, looking for signs about relationships or what the future might bring.”

Clover studied the fire thoughtfully. “So some of the games were really about the things people hoped for. Love, happiness, good fortune.”

“That's right,” Shamrock answered. “The games were entertainment, but they also reflected what mattered to the people playing them.”

“And in Ireland,” he continued, “there’s a fruit bread called báirín breac. Sometimes little tokens were baked inside. Finding a ring, for example, could be taken as a sign that you’d marry.”

Hooligan stared at him. “A loaf of bread gets to decide that?”

Shamrock laughed. “Not literally. It was a tradition, a way of having fun while wondering what the future might hold.”

Clover looked interested. “So everyone would have a piece and see what they found?”

“That's the idea. Different objects could carry different meanings, depending on the custom. The ring was one of the best-known examples.”

Hooligan considered this. “What if you swallowed the ring?”

Clover gave him a look. “You are supposed to chew your food.”

“I do chew my food.”

Shamrock raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes,” Hooligan admitted.

Clover shook her head, smiling, then looked toward the house. “It's interesting that people could play some of these games so long ago, and we're still celebrating Halloween with games today.”

“Traditions have a way of changing and surviving,” Shamrock said. “Sometimes the original meaning becomes less important, but people continue enjoying the custom.”

Clover nodded. “And sometimes, like tonight, we get to learn why people started doing things in the first place.”

Shamrock smiled at her. “Exactly.”

Hooligan glanced at the fire, then the bowl of seeds in their mom’s lap. “I’m still glad somebody invented refrigerators.”

As the evening wore on, the conversations around the fire gradually grew quieter. The flames danced and crackled, sending occasional sparks into the darkness, while the woods beyond the yard stood silent and still. Clover and Hooligan had settled comfortably near their mom and dad, enjoying the warmth and the peacefulness of the evening.

Suddenly, their mom jumped to her feet.

“Clover! Hooligan! Come here! I want to show you something my mom used to do with me when I was little, around Halloween!”

Both puppies scrambled to their feet and hurried over. Anything that made Mom this excited had to be good. They sat directly in front of her, looking up with enormous, expectant eyes. Shamrock wandered over to see what all the excitement was about.

Their mom smiled, held up one hand, and spread her five fingers wide.

Then, without warning, she began to sing.

“Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate…”

She wiggled her fingers, making each one of the imaginary pumpkins bob along the fence.

“The first one said, ‘My, it's getting late!’”

She pointed to her first finger and made a worried little face.

“The second one said, ‘There's witches in the air!’”

Her voice dropped ominously. She glanced toward the treetops and swept her free hand through the air as though something were flying overhead.

Clover's ears lifted. Hooligan followed their mom's gaze toward the dark woods.

“The third one said, ‘We don't care!’”

Their mom tossed her head defiantly.

“The fourth one said, ‘Let's have some fun!’”

She grinned and wiggled her fingers again.

“And the fifth one said, ‘We'll run and run and run!’”

Her fingers raced through the air. Hooligan shifted uneasily. Running from what, exactly? And why were the pumpkins so unconcerned about witches?

Their mom drew a long breath, raised both arms, and let out a low, eerie howl.

“WOOOOOOOO went the wind…”

She swayed dramatically, making her arms twist and whirl like branches in a storm. Her voice grew louder and more sinister as the puppies stared up at her.

“AND OUT WENT THE LIGHTS!”

CLAP!

Their mom slammed her hands together with a tremendous crack.

Clover jumped. Hooligan nearly launched himself backward. Even Shamrock startled, his enormous shoulders jerking in surprise.

Completely delighted with her performance, their mom swept both hands downward for the grand finale.

“And the five little pumpkins rolled out of sight!”

She sent her imaginary pumpkins tumbling across the ground with an enthusiastic flourish.

Then she stood smiling proudly at her audience.

Her audience, however, was no longer looking at her.

Clover and Hooligan were staring at each other. Then they looked toward the woods. Then toward the dark spaces beyond the firelight.

Clover leaned toward her little brother.

“Hooligan,” she whispered, “did she say there were witches in the air?”

Hooligan's eyes widened.

He looked up.

He looked toward the trees.

He looked at their mom.

And then he ran.

Straight for the house.

Clover didn't wait to see whether the witches were coming. She bolted after him, the two puppies disappearing through the back door as fast as their enormous legs could carry them.

Their mom stood beside the fire, her hands still raised from her magnificent performance. She looked terribly pleased with herself.

Their dad was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

He glanced toward the house, then back at his wife.

Their mom turned around.

“Clover? Hooligan?”

There was no answer.

She looked toward the house again, and her delighted expression slowly faded.

“Oh,” she said, a little disappointed. “They left.”

For a moment, she stood quietly, remembering how much she'd loved that little Halloween song when she was a child. Then she glanced at their dad, who was still looking at her as though she'd just performed an exorcism beside the firepit.

Their mom burst out laughing.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that's how you send your audience to bed!”

Their mom and dad sat at the firepit for a while longer, waiting for the flames to die out. Once they did, their mom began gathering the bowls, still chuckling over her unexpectedly short-lived audience.

When they walked through the back door, they nearly tripped over Clover and Hooligan, who had apparently decided that the safest place to hide from the witches was the darkened family room, right inside the door.

Clover sat with Bird held tightly between her front paws, while Hooligan had Pig tucked securely beneath his chin. Neither puppy had any intention of letting go of their stuffies while there might still be witches flying around outside.

The clown had been switched off for hours and stood silently near the foot of the stairs. Their mom passed it without a glance, carrying the last of the pumpkin seeds toward the kitchen. Their dad was less casual. He eyed the white face and oversized grin as though the thing might spring at him simply because he had dared to turn his back. Clover caught the look, and so did Hooligan. They exchanged a glance of their own, then both headed for the staircase at once.

The collision happened on the third step. Clover had the longer stride and considerably more determination; she shouldered past Hooligan without losing momentum, while he skidded sideways, scrambled for purchase, and launched himself after her. The clown was downstairs, their dad was downstairs, and Hooligan had no intention of remaining anywhere near either one of them if the clown suddenly decided to speak. Their dad had started up the stairs behind them. Hooligan charged up the final steps just as their dad reached the landing. There was a thump, a tangle of legs, and their dad's outraged voice: “REALLY??!!” Hooligan recovered his footing and kept moving toward the bedroom, where Clover had already installed herself in a place of safety. He didn't have to be the fastest. He just had to be faster than their dad.

**************

 By Halloween afternoon, Clover and Hooligan were finally wearing the costumes they had chosen. Clover’s purple Pegasus wings rose from her back, her horn sitting proudly above her head. Hooligan’s Imperial Walker rode across his long frame, and he immediately resumed the slow, stiff-legged march he had practiced in the store. Their mom checked every strap one more time anyway. Their dad watched from the doorway and shook his head. “They’re fine.” Their mom ignored him and checked again. The firehouse parking lot had been transformed into a noisy little Halloween village.

Children in capes and masks darted between tables, music drifted from the building, and the scent of cider mingled with damp leaves and the unmistakable smell of a great many excited people. Along one side of the lot, connected tents formed the haunted house. A volunteer's shriek came from somewhere inside, followed by laughter. Hooligan stopped walking. Clover, wearing her Pegasus wings with the confidence of a dog who believed she looked magnificent, studied the entrance with more interest than alarm.

Their mom wanted the family to go through together, but she refused to be first or last. That settled the order: their dad led, Clover followed, their mom stayed in the middle, Hooligan kept close behind her, and Shamrock brought up the rear where only the two younger hounds could see him. They entered through a flap that fell shut behind them, cutting off the bright afternoon. The ground changed beneath their paws; somewhere ahead, a chain rattled and a pale shape swung slowly across the passage. Their dad rounded the first bend just as a hidden mechanism made a coffin lid jump. His shoulders rose toward his ears. Clover flinched against his leg, and their mom, seeing both reactions, laughed—until something brushed the curtain beside her and she made a noise that was considerably less dignified.

The tents were arranged so that each turn seemed to promise a clear path and then offered another surprise. Fog gathered around their legs, a lantern flickered over a crooked doorway, and a figure behind gauze moved when everyone thought it was standing still. Hooligan kept his eyes on their mom's shoes and Shamrock's reassuring shape behind him, but even Shamrock was not immune. As they passed a wall of patched fabric, a face suddenly thrust forward through a concealed opening directly behind his shoulder. Shamrock sprang sideways with such speed that Hooligan jumped in sympathy, while Clover whirled around to see what had frightened the one dog she assumed nothing could frighten. Shamrock looked at the wall, then at both puppies, and quietly decided the less said about it the better.

Near the last bend, something lunged out of the darkness beside Clover. She spun toward their dad so quickly that one of her purple Pegasus wings caught in a hanging curtain. The fabric tugged at her back. Clover froze for one terrible instant, certain that whatever had jumped out had grabbed her. Then she made a desperate dash for the safest place she could think of: between his legs. Their dad barely had time to look down before an enormous Irish Wolfhound tried to squeeze through a space that was nowhere near big enough. He staggered, grabbed for the curtain, and found himself fighting to keep his balance while Clover pushed forward and the trapped wing pulled backward. The curtain finally came free, but by then their dad was tipping sideways. He reached for the nearest wall, which turned out to be nothing more than two overlapping sheets of tent fabric. The sheets parted, and their dad and Clover went straight through them.

They landed in a magnificent heap in the firehouse parking lot, tangled together with Clover’s wings twisted around him and a length of loose fabric draped over both of them. For a moment neither moved. Then Clover sat up—directly in their dad’s lap—as if she had simply decided they needed a rest. He blinked into the sudden brightness, rubbed his eyes, and tried to make sense of how a dark haunted tent had turned into a sunlit parking lot. Clover looked down at him, perfectly content to stay where she was. Before he could say much, a wonderful smell drifted over from the food tables. Their dad lifted his head and sniffed. “Clover Bean, do you smell that? I think we need to find out what they’re cooking.” Clover leaned forward and gave him a great wet lick across the face. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He untangled her wings, eased her off his lap, and got to his feet. The two of them headed toward the delicious smell without giving the haunted house another thought.

Back inside the tents, their mom and Hooligan had seen the whole thing. One moment their dad  and Clover were ahead of them; the next, the sheets had flown apart and both had vanished into the parking lot in a tangle of legs and purple wings. Their mom stared at the opening, mortified. Hooligan was laughing so hard he could barely stand still. Their mom straightened, looked determinedly toward the next dark passage, and said, “Keep moving. Pretend like we are not with them.” Hooligan followed, still shaking with laughter. Together they faced the remaining rattles, shadows, and sudden scares, and this time neither of them was going to be chased out through a wall. When they finally emerged through the proper exit, their mom held her head high as though they had conquered the entire haunted house. Hooligan was just as pleased with himself. She bent down to give him a quick snuggle, and he leaned into her before they went off to find their dad and Clover. Shamrock stayed with the pair, amused by their triumphant finish.

Outside, the mood changed completely. One of the firefighters had set up a tub for bobbing for apples. Clover watched children come up laughing and dripping, and the longer she watched, the more interested she became. Hooligan took one look at the water and backed away. He liked the game perfectly well from several feet away. There was absolutely no reason, in his opinion, to put his face in water on purpose. Clover, however, was fascinated by the apples. People food was floating right there in front of her, and not only was nobody stopping her from trying to grab it, their mom and dad were encouraging her. She had waited her whole long life for this moment. All nineteen months of it.

The first attempt sent the apple skittering away from her long Wolfhound muzzle. Clover came up dripping and immediately went back in.

“Come on, Clover Bean!” their dad called. Their mom was laughing and cheering too. Shamrock was having almost as much fun watching as Clover was having trying.

Hooligan remained safely dry and became her coach. “Get it, Clover! Get it! You almost had it!” Clover tried again. The apple slipped away. Her beard was soaked now, and one side of her Pegasus horn had begun to sag. Her tail, however, was spinning so hard it looked like a helicopter rotor. She plunged her muzzle back into the water, chased the apple against the side of the tub, and finally—CHOMP.

She lifted her head with the apple clenched triumphantly in her teeth. Water poured from her beard. Her horn leaned sadly to one side. Her tail became a blur. “Attagirl, Clover Bean! You got it!” their dad shouted. 

Hooligan bounced in place. “You got one!” Shamrock laughed as Clover pranced around with her prize, enormously pleased with herself.

When the cheering died down, one of the firefighters crooked a finger at Clover. She followed him a few steps, still clenching the apple. He crouched in front of her. “How about you give me that?” Clover stared at him. No chance. She had won it.

“Trust me,” he said. Then he pulled out a large jar filled with something brown and creamy. He began turning the lid slowly. Clover caught the first faint whiff. Her eyes widened. Her tail started again. The firefighter asked for the apple one more time. This time Clover surrendered it. He sliced the apple, pulled out a spoon, and spread a generous spoonful of peanut butter across each slice. Then he held out the first one. Clover took it delicately, bit down, and stopped. Apple and peanut butter together. Clover had not known such a thing existed. She chewed slowly, eyes half closing in bliss.

The firefighter laughed. “That’s our special secret.” Clover looked at him with complete devotion. As far as she was concerned, they were friends for life. Hooligan watched from his dry position nearby and decided Clover’s ridiculous dripping beard and collapsing horn were now fair game. Clover did not care. She had peanut-butter apples.

*********************

By early evening, the streets were filling with younger trick-or-treaters. Clover and Hooligan walked between their mom and dad while Shamrock moved beside them unseen by everyone else. The neighbors loved the Pegasus and the Imperial Walker. People called out from porches, laughed, asked to pet them, and produced an astonishing number of dog treats. Hooligan still did not particularly care for ghosts, vampires, or anything with a mask, but he was doing his best to ignore them. So far, Halloween seemed survivable. As they walked, Shamrock told them that not every tradition involving the dead treated them as something frightening.

In Mexico, he explained, Día de Muertos was a distinct tradition centered on remembering and welcoming loved ones who had died. Families might create ofrendas with photographs, candles, flowers, favorite foods, and other things that belonged to or reminded them of the people they loved.

Hooligan listened while watching the crowd around him. His eyes tracked a dinosaur crossing the street, then a witch carrying a glowing bucket, then three little superheroes racing toward a porch. He heard Shamrock perfectly well. He simply was not watching Clover. Clover was watching Shamrock. When he mentioned leaving favorite foods for loved ones who had died, her eyes brightened with amusement. She leaned slightly toward him and murmured, “Guess we’d better remember your favorite treats.” Shamrock heard her. A tiny smile touched his face, and he gave her a wink. Hooligan missed the entire exchange.

Clover walked quietly beside Shamrock for a few moments, thinking about everything he’d told them. Finally, she looked up at her big brother.

“Shamrock, I’m getting a little confused. There’s Samhain, Halloween, All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints’ Day, and now Día de Muertos. Some of them sound alike, and some of them seem completely different. But they all have something to do with people who have died, don’t they?”

Shamrock smiled at her. “I can understand why you’re confused, Clover. That’s a lot to take in, especially when we’re trying to enjoy trick-or-treating. Some of these traditions are historically connected, while others developed separately. And although they share certain ideas, they don’t all mean the same thing.”

“But how do I know which is which?” she asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. When we get home and things settle down a little, we’ll sit together and talk about them. You can ask me anything you like, and we’ll take our time. How does that sound?”

Clover brightened. “I’d like that!”

“Then it’s a promise,” Shamrock replied.

The conversation drifted from remembrance into old stories and folklore. Vampires, Shamrock explained, came with rules of their own in many stories. One of the most famous was that a vampire could not simply enter a home. It had to be invited inside. Hooligan liked that rule very much. It was concrete. Useful. Reassuring. Monsters could be outside, but home was home. If nobody invited them in, they could not just walk through the door and eat everybody. Shamrock, pleased that he had managed to make Hooligan feel better, had no idea how badly that information was going to backfire.

A little farther along the neighborhood route, three teenage girls walked ahead of the family, dressed as a firefighter, a police officer, and a nurse in white. From behind, there was nothing particularly frightening about them. Clover nudged Hooligan and nodded toward the girls. “See? Look at them. They’re cute! There’s nothing scary about Halloween costumes.” Hooligan studied the three figures ahead of them. He was just beginning to think his big sister might have a point when the nurse turned around.

Her eyes were a terrible red. She opened her mouth, and thick black ooze spilled over her lower lip and dripped down her chin. Then she raised one finger toward the trick-or-treaters behind her and reached out. Clover stared, frozen for one awful instant. She had just assured Hooligan that there was nothing to fear, and now she was quite certain the end had come. She wheeled around, barreled into their dad, and shoved herself behind his legs, nearly taking him off his feet. Hooligan scrambled aside, startled by the speed of her retreat. Their dad had been looking elsewhere and missed the nurse’s performance entirely. He glanced down at the enormous purple-winged puppy pressed against him and rubbed her neck. “Yeah, I don’t like nurses either, Clover Bean. Shots are no fun.” “You know what I don't understand?” their dad continued, rubbing Clover's neck. “Why don't dogs get lollipops after their shots? Kids get lollipops. You'd think dogs would get something, too. It's just not right. Maybe if they gave you a little treat afterward, you wouldn't be so upset about going to the doctor.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I'm going to have to mention that to Doc the next time we see him.”

While their dad contemplated the unfair state of shots and lollipops in veterinary medicine, Clover remained firmly tucked behind his legs, still trying to recover from the horrifying sight she'd just witnessed.

Shamrock came to stand beside his little sister. He didn’t speak at first. He watched Clover press against their dad while their dad stroked her neck and talked softly to her, still completely unaware of what had sent her running. There was worry in Shamrock’s eyes, but something else, too. Seeing how instinctively Clover had turned to their dad, and how readily their dad comforted her, filled him with a quiet happiness and relief. He had never doubted how loved she was. Still, being there to see it meant more than he could have said. Then their dad mentioned shots again, and Shamrock shook his head with a little laugh. Their dad had gotten it wrong. Again.

Shamrock leaned in and gently nudged Clover with his nose. She turned to look at him.

“Hey,” he said, his eyes still concerned. “That wasn’t real. It was make-believe. Fake. You’re safe, Clover. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Mom and Dad would never let that happen. Neither would Hooligan or me.”

Clover nodded. “I know.”

Shamrock’s expression brightened into a grin. “Besides, you’re the mighty and powerful Pegasus! If things get crazy, you can just fly us all away to safety.”

“I’m not really a Pegasus,” Clover said.

“No?”

“No, it’s just a cost—” She stopped and looked at him. Shamrock’s eyes were wide, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Costume,” Clover finished.

“Oh, okay,” Shamrock said, nodding as though this were very important information. “You’re wearing a costume.” He waited until she met his eyes again. “So was that girl.”

Clover glanced back toward the girls ahead of them.

“I think she probably had red contacts in her eyes,” Shamrock continued. “And that black ooze? I think it was one of those capsules people bite down on. It’s like a thick candy gel. I’ve heard it tastes like chocolate licorice.”

Clover looked at him and licked her lips. “That sounds good.”

Shamrock’s tail wagged as he laughed. “Yeah, it does.” He studied her face again. “You got this. You good?”

“I think so.”

“That was scary,” Shamrock said warmly. “And I’m proud of you.”

Clover’s tail began to spin. Beside them, their dad was still talking about nurses and doctors, now muttering something about how everyone should a lollipop after a shot- no matter the age or species. Clover finally stepped out from behind his legs, stood up straight, and started walking again.

Hooligan had watched everything between his sister and Shamrock without saying a word. He had seen Clover terrified, their dad comforting her without knowing why, and Shamrock waiting beside her until she was ready to listen. He fell into step with them, still thinking about it.

They continued from porch to porch as evening settled over the neighborhood. Clover accepted compliments on her wings with renewed pride, and Hooligan passed several more unsettling costumes without needing to retreat. What stayed with him, more than any of the treats or decorations, was the sight of Shamrock beside Clover when she had been afraid. It was a simple thing to remember, and Hooligan remembered it.

******************

When they finally arrived home, their mom and dad helped Clover and Hooligan out of their costumes and spread the evening’s treasures across the kitchen table. There were dog treats, little toys, and enough odds and ends to make Hooligan believe they had personally saved Halloween. Their parents examined everything, setting aside anything unsuitable and checking the treats before allowing the puppies to enjoy a few. Hooligan watched the inspection with the solemn concern of someone who suspected that every item removed from the pile was a personal loss.

Once the approved treats had been distributed, their mom replenished the candy bowl for the older trick-or-treaters while their dad gathered the costumes and cleared the table. Clover settled comfortably near Shamrock. Hooligan lay nearby, working on the last crumbs of his treat and keeping one eye on the kitchen in case a second inspection somehow produced a second serving.

“Clover,” Shamrock said, “I promised you we’d talk when we got home. Have you still got those questions?”

“More than I had before,” Clover admitted. “I keep thinking about the Day of the Dead. And Samhain, and All Saints’ Day, and Halloween. I understand bits of each one, but I’m having trouble fitting them together.”

“That’s because they don’t all fit together in one neat line,” Shamrock told her. “Some have historical connections, some share dates or ideas, and some grew out of different cultures entirely. We talked about Samhain and the difference between All Hallows’ Eve and Halloween by the firepit, remember? Let’s start with the one you heard about tonight.”

“Día de Muertos,” Clover said carefully. “Day of the Dead.”

“Exactly. And remember, Día de Muertos is its own Mexican tradition, usually observed around November first and second. Families come together to remember and celebrate loved ones who have died. The ofrendas we talked about earlier are just one part of that celebration. It can be colorful and joyful as well as tender, and although some dates overlap with other holidays, it isn't simply Mexican Halloween.”

Hooligan lifted his head. “Wait. They put out somebody’s favorite food?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Shamrock said. “It’s a way of welcoming and remembering them. Some families believe their loved ones’ spirits return to visit during those days.”

“And then everybody eats?” Hooligan asked.

“Living families may share food, yes. But the offerings are about love and remembrance, not feeding a hungry visitor the way you’re imagining.”

Hooligan considered this. “I’m imagining a visitor who would appreciate a meatball.”

“I know you are,” Shamrock said, trying not to laugh.

Clover tilted her head. “So what about All Saints’ Day? That’s November first, too. Is that the same thing?”

“No. All Saints’ Day is a Christian observance honoring saints. All Hallows’ Eve is the evening before it—October thirty-first. That’s where the name Halloween comes from. Modern Halloween is celebrated on that same evening, but costumes, candy, and trick-or-treating are part of the popular holiday rather than the whole meaning of the religious observance.”

“And Samhain?” Clover asked.

“An older Gaelic seasonal festival, marking the passage into the darker part of the year. We talked about the harvest, the coming winter, and the stories people told about the boundary between the living and the spirit world. Some Halloween customs have been influenced by older traditions, including those associated with Samhain, but it would be too simple to say that every Halloween custom came from one festival.”

Clover thought for a moment. “So Halloween and All Hallows’ Eve share an evening and a name, but people might mean different things when they say them. All Saints’ Day is the next day. Samhain is an older seasonal tradition. And Día de Muertos is its own celebration, even though some dates overlap.”

“That’s it,” Shamrock said, clearly pleased. “And the most important thing is to listen to what each tradition means to the people who observe it, instead of assuming they’re all versions of the same holiday.”

“I think I understand,” Clover said. “The costumes and spooky stories are fun, but remembering someone you love can be part of a celebration, too.”

Shamrock met her eyes and gave a gentle nod. “It certainly can.”

Hooligan looked between them. “I have one more question.”

“Of course you do,” Shamrock said.

“If there are flowers and candles and pictures and food, who decides whether the meatballs are good enough?”

Clover laughed. Shamrock shook his head. “Hooligan, I promise you, the meatballs are not the point.”

“That,” Hooligan said gravely, “is where we disagree.”

Just then, the doorbell rang. Their mom picked up the candy bowl and opened the front door to a cluster of six older trick-or-treaters in elaborate, thoroughly alarming costumes.

“TRICK OR TREAT!” they shouted together.

Hooligan’s ears shot up. He stared at the doorway, where six monsters had apparently arrived to demand tribute.

These were not little children in pumpkin pajamas or tiny superhero capes. These were teenagers. Tall teenagers. Loud teenagers. Teenagers who had put real effort into being horrifying. Their vampires had blood at their mouths. Their ghosts moved strangely. Their monsters knew how to loom.

One of the ghosts was particularly disturbing. Its long, ragged shroud hung almost to the ground, and beneath its hood was a pale, hollow-eyed face that barely seemed alive. It moved so quietly that Hooligan couldn't even tell whether its feet were touching the floor. He watched it glide past their mom and wondered uneasily whether there was actually a person underneath all that fabric.

Now, Hooligan understood what costumes were. He had been to the costume store, worn his own costume, visited a haunted house, and seen plenty of trick-or-treaters. But he had also listened very carefully to everything Shamrock had taught them about Halloween. The veil between the living and the dead was thinner on this night. Spirits could cross over. And long ago, people had dressed as frightening creatures to fool the real ones into leaving them alone.

Hooligan had given all of this considerable thought. If people could dress up as monsters to fool real monsters, what was stopping real monsters from dressing up as people pretending to be monsters? How could anyone tell the difference? As far as Hooligan was concerned, there was absolutely no way to know for certain, and he wasn't about to take any chances with his family.

Their mom, however, appeared to have given the matter no thought whatsoever.

She just kept opening the door and smiling at the monsters. Worse, she kept feeding them candy.

Hooligan watched from the family room, deeply troubled. One group left, only to be replaced by another. Some of the costumes were obviously make-believe, but others were so frighteningly realistic, with every gruesome detail carefully arranged, that Hooligan found himself becoming increasingly alarmed. He studied each new arrival, searching for something that might reveal whether the creature standing on their doorstep was a person in a costume or something far more sinister.

Unfortunately, the more he looked, the less certain he became.

Shamrock had been watching his little cousin struggle through days of Halloween spookiness, and he could see that Hooligan was having a difficult time. He called to him softly.

“Hey, Hooligan. Remember what I told you earlier? Monsters have rules. They can't come into the house unless they're invited.”

Hooligan, still staring at the group of monsters talking to their mom, nodded. He remembered.

“Good,” Shamrock replied, satisfied that he'd reassured him, and turned his attention to Clover.

Hooligan remained at his post, watching the front door. Another group of trick-or-treaters departed, and still more approached. Their mom greeted the newcomers cheerfully and began handing out candy.

The last candy bar in the bowl went to a particularly nasty-looking vampire, who immediately tore open the wrapper and began eating it.

Their mom looked into the empty bowl.

“Oh, I'm out! Come on inside for a minute while I run to the kitchen and get another bag.”

Hooligan froze.

She invited them in.

The rule.

The ONE rule Shamrock had just reminded him about.

Monsters couldn't come into the house unless they were invited.

And their mom had just INVITED THE MONSTERS INTO THE HOUSE!

Hooligan's panic arrived all at once.

“They're going to eat us! EAT US, CLOVER! Mom let them in! ‘Come on in,’ she said!”

He stared toward the front hall. The particularly nasty-looking vampire was still standing there, chewing his candy bar. Then he licked his lips.

Hooligan's eyes went huge.

“LOOK! ONE IS LICKING HIS LIPS!”

Shamrock looked. “He's licking chocolate off his lips from the candy bar he's eating.”

Hooligan spun toward him.

“IT'S AN APPETIZER! HE'S GONNA EAT US ALL!”

Clover could see that Hooligan was dangerously close to a complete meltdown. She stepped beside her little brother, hoping to calm him before he frightened himself any further.

“Hooligan, honey, there's really nothing to be so worried about. Not all monsters are bad.”

Hooligan looked at her, then back toward the front hall, where the monsters were still waiting for their mom to return. One of the ghosts shifted its position. The vampire continued chewing his candy bar.

Clover kept talking, but Hooligan was having trouble following her. His eyes moved from his sister to the monsters, then back to his sister, then immediately to the monsters again. Her voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, as though she were speaking to him from the other end of a long tunnel.

Something about monsters. Something about ghosts. Something about not being afraid.

He glanced at the front hall again.

Where was Mom? Why was she taking so long? What if the monsters decided they didn't want to wait for more candy?

Clover's voice continued in the background, but Hooligan heard little more than a distant stream of words.

Finally, their mom came back down the stairs with another bag of candy. She filled the waiting hands, wished everyone a happy Halloween, and watched the teenagers file back outside.

“Happy Halloween!” they called cheerfully.

Their mom closed the door.

Hooligan stared at it.

The monsters were gone.

They had actually left.

He was still trying to make sense of this unexpected development when Clover's voice finally reached him.

“So, see, Hooligan? There's really no reason to be afraid.”

He turned toward her and shook his head slightly.

“Huh?”

Clover smiled patiently. “I was saying that not all monsters are frightening or dangerous. Ghosts can be perfectly nice. We even know one!”

Hooligan blinked.

“Ghosts? We know—wait. What?”

He stared at his sister.

“Did you just say we know a ghost who's not scary?”

“Of course,” Clover replied.

She casually glanced over her shoulder, lifted a paw toward Shamrock, and said, “Shamrock.”

Hooligan stood perfectly still.

He looked at Clover.

Then at Shamrock.

Then back at Clover.

Only moments earlier, he'd been convinced that their mom had invited a pack of hungry monsters into the house. He was still trying to recover from that terrifying experience, and now his sister was telling him that Shamrock was a ghost.

The thing was, Hooligan had never really questioned the peculiar circumstances surrounding his older cousin. Shamrock appeared when he appeared and disappeared when he disappeared. Their mom and dad never seemed to notice him, never spoke to him, and never reacted when he was standing right beside them. Hooligan had noticed all of these things, of course. He simply hadn't considered them particularly unusual.

That was just Shamrock.

His cousin. His friend. The enormous gray Wolfhound who told wonderful stories, knew practically everything, and always seemed to be there when the puppies needed him.

Hooligan looked at Shamrock again.

Then something finally clicked.

His eyes grew enormous.

“A GHOST?”

He spun toward Clover, then back to Shamrock.

“SHAMROCK'S A GHOST?!”

The vampires and other monsters at the door were forgotten.

 “So you’re dead?” Hooligan asked.

“Yes,” Shamrock said gently.

“But then how are you standing here? Can all dead dogs do that? Can you walk through walls? Wait—have you walked through our walls?”

“I don’t know whether all—” Shamrock began.

“Do you sleep? Do ghosts need beds? Do you get tired? How long do you sleep? Do you snore?” Hooligan paused, his eyes growing enormous. “What do ghost snores sound like?”

Shamrock opened his mouth, but Hooligan was already moving on.

“Can you see other ghosts? If you can, do you have ghost friends? Do they know you’re here? Are there ghost squirrels? If there are ghost squirrels, can you chase them? If you catch one, what happens?”

“Hooligan,” Shamrock said, trying not to laugh, “I can answer some of these things, but you have to give me a moment to—”

“Can you disappear whenever you want? Is it hard? Does it tickle? Where do you go when you disappear? Is there a door? Can you see through yourself? Can I see through you? CLOVER, CAN YOU SEE THROUGH HIM?”

Clover leaned sideways to look. “No,” she said, though her ears had come forward with interest. She had questions of her own, but getting one into the conversation was proving nearly impossible.

Shamrock took a few steps toward the quieter end of the room. Hooligan followed so closely that his nose nearly touched the great Wolfhound’s hindquarters. Shamrock moved again. Hooligan moved with him. There was not so much as a paw’s length of peace between them.

“Does being a ghost feel different?” Hooligan asked at Shamrock’s back end. “Are your paws cold? Can you smell things? Do you still get itchy? What if you have an itch you can’t reach? Can ghosts sneeze?”

“Hooligan, if you would just let me finish one—”

“CAN YOU HICCUP?”

Shamrock walked toward the doorway. Hooligan trotted after him, talking the entire way. Shamrock turned left. Hooligan turned left. Shamrock tried to put a little distance between them, but Hooligan simply lengthened his stride, his face bright with absolute wonder. He was not trying to be difficult. Shamrock was his family, and Shamrock knew things, and Hooligan trusted him to explain the impossible.

“If you’re a ghost, can you be scared of another ghost? Can you make yourself glow? Could you float up to the ceiling? If you floated up there, would you be stuck? Would we have to get Dad’s ladder?”

Shamrock drew a long breath and kept walking, hoping that perhaps Hooligan would eventually run out of questions.

He did not.

“Do you still get hungry? DO YOU EAT? If you eat, where does the food go? Do you have a stomach? Does it work the same way?” Hooligan's forehead wrinkled as an entirely new possibility occurred to him.

“WAIT! IF YOU EAT, DO YOU POOP? WHAT DOES GHOST POOP LOOK LIKE?”

Shamrock stopped so abruptly that Hooligan walked straight into his rear end. The youngster bounced backward, blinked, and opened his mouth to ask another question.

Something in Shamrock finally snapped. He wheeled around, drew himself up to his full, enormous height, and filled his chest with air. For one terrible instant, the room seemed to hold still. Then, in the deep, resonant voice that could make nature itself fall silent, he bellowed:

“BOOO!”

Hooligan recoiled as though the sound had struck him. His ears flattened against his head, his tail dropped, and the joy vanished from his face. He shrank backward, eyes wide and body low. Before anyone could reach him, he spun and bolted blindly up the stairs.

Clover stood frozen, staring after her little brother. Then she turned toward Shamrock. Her expression held more hurt than anger, and her voice trembled. “Why? He was just excited. He was curious.” She did not wait for an answer. Turning away from her older brother, she went to the couch and picked up Pig. She knew how much that stuffed toy meant to Hooligan, and hoped it may provide some comfort. With Pig secured in her mouth, she raced up the stairs to find her little brother.

Shamrock did not move. The echo of his own voice seemed to hang around him. His eyes widened as he understood what he had done. His ears sank, his tail lowered, and the enormous Wolfhound who had frightened his little cousin suddenly looked lost. Hooligan had only wanted to understand him. Shamrock could not quite understand himself. After a few stunned moments, he lowered his head and slowly climbed the stairs to find Hooligan and make things right.

Hooligan disappeared. Hooligan was under the bed. Or as far under the bed as an eight-month-old Irish Wolfhound could possibly get. His long body was wedged beneath the frame, his eyes squeezed shut and his enormous paws pressed over his ears. Clover lowered her head, placed Pig on the floor, and gently pushed him beneath the bed toward Hooligan. Clover lay flat on the floor beside the bed, her head and shoulders pushed underneath it.

“Hooligan.” No response. “Come on. Please come out.”

“Nope.”

Clover looked back at Shamrock. The huge pale Wolfhound stood behind her, staring into the dark space beneath the bed. “Hooligan,” he said gently. “Come on out.” One of Hooligan’s eyes opened. He looked at Shamrock. Then he closed it again and pulled his paws tighter over his ears.

“Nope.”

Clover backed out from beneath the bed. “He won’t come out.”

“I can see that.”

Shamrock lowered himself to the floor. “I’m sorry I scared you.” Nothing. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Hooligan’s paws stayed firmly over his ears.

Shamrock tried again. He talked to him gently. Clover tried too. They gave him a little time and then tried again. Nothing they said made any difference. Finally, Shamrock looked at Clover.

“Get Mom.”

Clover stared at him.

“Now.”

Clover was on her feet and out of the room. She raced down the stairs just as their mom was closing the front door behind the last trick-or-treaters of the night.

Their mom glanced at her watch. “That’s it.” She switched off the porch light and locked the door. Then she turned and nearly walked into Clover.

“Whoa. What’s wrong with you?”

Clover looked toward the stairs, then back at her. Their mom frowned. “Clover?”

Clover gently took her arm in her mouth and turned toward the stairs. “All right. I’m coming.” Their mom followed her upstairs. Shamrock was still lying beside the bed when they came into the room. Clover went straight to him. Their mom looked around.

“Where’s Hooligan?” Then she saw the long legs beneath the bed. “Oh, Little Man.”

She got down on the floor and peered underneath. Hooligan’s eyes were squeezed shut. Both enormous paws were still pressed over his ears. “Hey.” Nothing. “It’s okay. Halloween’s over.” Hooligan didn’t move. “No more trick-or-treaters tonight. The porch light is off. Everybody went home.” Nothing. Their mom studied him for a moment. Then she got up and left the room. Clover looked at Shamrock. Shamrock looked toward the doorway. A minute later, their mom came back.

This time, she was carrying one of the special dog cookies she had made. She lowered herself to the floor again and reached beneath the bed with the cookie resting in her hand. Hooligan’s nose twitched. One eye opened. Their mom laughed. “There you are.”

She pulled her hand back. Hooligan’s eye followed it. “Oh, no. If you want this, you have to come out.” Hooligan considered that. Their mom held the cookie out again. His nose twitched. He licked his lips. Both eyes opened. Then he saw the size of the cookie. Slowly, Hooligan began working his way out from beneath the bed.

When he was finally free, he sat in front of their mom. She handed him the cookie. Hooligan looked down. It was a ghost. Behind him, Clover and Shamrock waited. Hooligan stared at the cookie. The tip of his tail twitched. Then it twitched again. He opened his mouth. The ghost disappeared in one enormous bite. Their mom laughed and gave him a good scritch before wrapping an arm around his neck and planting a big kiss on his head.

“There’s my Little Man.”

Their mom was still smiling. She rubbed Hooligan’s neck once more before getting to her feet. “Oh, Little Man. I could just eat you all up!”

Clover’s eyes went wide. Shamrock slowly sat down. Oh dear Lord, he thought. Mom has no idea what she just did. For a beat, both of them watched Hooligan and waited for the panic. Hooligan looked after their mom, then broke into a huge smile. “She thinks I’m too cute. She looooves me!” He pranced in a small circle, enormously pleased with himself. Clover and Shamrock stared at him. Then Hooligan’s prance slowed. He looked at Shamrock.

Clover settled a little to one side, forming a loose triangle with her two brothers. From there, she could see both of their faces. She remained quiet, her eyes moving between them.

For a moment, the three Wolfhounds were quiet. Hooligan looked at Shamrock, who lowered his head toward him. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry I scared you.”

Hooligan watched him without answering.

“You were asking me so many questions that I got overwhelmed,” Shamrock continued. “I couldn’t answer one before you asked another. I got frustrated. I thought scaring you would make you stop. I thought it would work.”

Hooligan’s ears shifted. “It did.”

Clover sat back on her haunches, her ears drooping. She looked sadly at Hooligan before turning her eyes to Shamrock, searching his face. Had he understood how much those two little words meant? He had.

Shamrock was quiet for a moment. “I know. And I’m very sorry. I was overwhelmed and frustrated, but I was wrong to scare you like that.”

He lowered his head a little closer. “I can make mistakes. I’m not perfect. Obviously. But I know I crossed a line when I scared you, and I will try my very best not to do something like that again. I’ll try to be better.”

Clover looked at Hooligan, hope beginning to shine in her eyes. The very tip of her tail started to twitch as she waited to see how he would respond.

Hooligan suddenly looked toward the doorway. “Those ghost cookies were so good.”

Clover’s ears lifted as Hooligan turned back to Shamrock. “I wonder if you taste as good!” Clover’s eyes grew wide. What was he about to do? Before Shamrock could move, Hooligan leaned forward and dragged one enormous lick straight across his face. Shamrock jerked his head back. Hooligan considered him for a moment. “No. The cookies are better.” Clover sprang to her feet, laughing, her tail wagging wildly. There he was. Her ridiculous, wonderful little brother.

***********************

 The three Wolfhounds headed downstairs together. Their mom had promised them a special treat once the Halloween festivities were over. They would all settle in together to watch the much-loved animated Halloween special, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

Hooligan was initially suspicious of the idea that another mysterious thing called the Great Pumpkin was expected to appear after dark, but Clover was delighted at the thought of watching it again.

The family room was waiting for them. Their mom and dad were still busy in the kitchen, putting away the last of the Halloween treats and tidying up after the evening's festivities. Clover settled onto the couch, Hooligan stretched out on the rug, and Shamrock took his familiar place nearby. For the first time all evening, nobody was running from anything, hiding beneath furniture, or worrying about what might come through the front door.

Shamrock looked at the two puppies. “You know, there's something I think we should talk about before Mom and Dad come in.”

Hooligan lifted his head. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, not at all. Quite the opposite.” Shamrock smiled. “I think you both deserve to understand something about what happened tonight.”

Clover shifted comfortably on the couch. “About Halloween?”

“About why some of the things you saw were so frightening. The clown, the nurse, the monsters at the door. Even some of the costumes that were supposed to be funny.”

Hooligan's ears moved forward. “I didn't think the clown was funny.”

“I know you didn't,” Shamrock replied. “And there's a very good reason for that.”

Clover looked thoughtful. “Some costumes are made to be frightening. Isn't that the point?”

“Sometimes,” Shamrock agreed. “But think about the clown. Its painted smile is enormous, its colors are bright, and someone might have designed it to look cheerful or silly. Yet it frightened Hooligan just as much as some of the monsters.”

“More,” Hooligan corrected. “Much more.”

Shamrock nodded. “And that tells us something important. It isn't always about whether something is meant to be scary.”

Clover considered this. “Then what is it?”

“Think about how we recognize people,” Shamrock said. “When Mom walks into a room, how do you know it's her?”

Hooligan looked puzzled. “Because she's Mom.”

Clover smiled. “I think Shamrock means how we recognize her.”

“Oh.” Hooligan thought about it. “I know her smell. And her voice. And the way she walks.”

“Exactly,” Shamrock said. “You know much more about Mom than what her face looks like. You recognize her movements, her posture, her expressions, and all sorts of little things you've learned from being around her.”

Clover nodded. “And we can tell when she's happy or upset, even before she says anything.”

“Very often, yes. People and dogs both depend on information like that. We watch faces, eyes, posture, and movement to help us understand who's approaching us and what they might do.”

Hooligan looked interested. “Like when Dad gets that look before he tells us to get off the couch?”

Clover laughed. “You mean the look you pretend not to notice?”

“I notice it,” Hooligan replied. “I just don't always agree with it.”

Shamrock chuckled. “That's actually a very good example. You recognize Dad's expression because you've seen it before. You understand what it usually means.”

Clover looked at Shamrock. “So what happens when someone puts on a mask?”

“Some of that familiar information disappears,” he explained. “A mask can hide the eyes, the mouth, and the expressions we normally use to understand someone. Heavy face paint can change the appearance of those features, too. And a costume can alter the shape of a person's body or the way they move.”

Clover sat up a little straighter. “So even if the person underneath is friendly, we might not be able to tell.”

“Precisely. Our brains are always trying to make sense of what we see. When something looks unfamiliar, or when the usual clues are missing, we may become cautious before we've had time to think about it.”

Hooligan glanced toward the dark hallway. “So that's why I didn't like those monsters coming into our house?”

“That's certainly part of what could have frightened you,” Shamrock answered. “You couldn't recognize the people beneath those costumes. Their faces were hidden or changed, and you didn't know what to expect from them.”

“But Mom knew they were just kids,” Hooligan said.

“She did. Mom understood what was happening. You didn't have all the same information she had.”

Clover thought about that. “And even if we know it's Halloween, that doesn't mean we can always recognize what's underneath a costume.”

“Exactly.”

Clover was quiet for a moment before looking toward Shamrock again. “The nurse,” she said.

Shamrock turned to her.

“She looked like a person, but her eyes weren't right. And that black stuff coming out of her mouth...” Clover paused. “I couldn't tell what was happening when she turned around.”

Shamrock's expression softened. “And she startled you.”

Clover nodded. “I knew nurses were people. Dad was right about that. But she didn't look like any nurse I'd ever seen.”

“Because her appearance had been deliberately changed,” Shamrock said. “Those unusual eyes, the dark material around her mouth, and the sudden movement made her difficult to read. You had very little time to work out what you were seeing.”

Clover glanced at Hooligan. “So I wasn't being ridiculous.”

“Not at all,” Shamrock answered. “You were startled by something unfamiliar. That's a perfectly understandable reaction.”

Hooligan lifted his head higher. “Even for Clover?”

“Even for Clover,” Shamrock said.

Clover smiled at her younger brother. “Even for you.”

Hooligan thought about that for a moment. “I suppose I wouldn't have liked that nurse either.”

“I don't imagine you would have,” Clover replied.

Shamrock watched them with a small smile. “There's something else I want you both to understand. Sometimes we react before we've had a chance to decide whether something is actually dangerous. That's part of how living creatures protect themselves. It's better to notice something unusual than to ignore every possible warning.”

Clover nodded slowly. “But noticing something unusual doesn't necessarily mean there's danger.”

“Right. A strange appearance isn't proof that someone means us harm. It simply means we may need more information.”

Hooligan looked at him. “So if I see somebody wearing a mask, I should wait and see what they're doing?”

“If you're comfortable and have a safe distance, you can take your time observing,” Shamrock answered. “You don't have to approach someone just because other people think the costume is funny. And you certainly don't have to let anyone frighten you on purpose.”

Clover considered that. “And if someone takes off the mask, we might recognize them again.”

“Sometimes that helps enormously,” Shamrock said. “So can hearing a familiar voice, recognizing a familiar smell, or simply having time to watch without being rushed.”

Hooligan looked thoughtful. “What about the clown? It doesn't take off its face.”

“No,” Shamrock said, suppressing a smile. “But you can learn that it's a decoration. You can learn what makes it move, and you can decide how close you feel comfortable getting.”

Hooligan considered this carefully. “I think I'm comfortable getting very far away from it.”

Clover laughed. “That's not what he meant.”

“I know what he meant. I'm just telling him what I've decided.”

Clover glanced at Shamrock. “Well, Dad doesn't like clowns either. And he's been through a lot more Halloweens than we have.”

Hooligan perked up. “He has?”

“A whole lot more,” Shamrock confirmed.

Hooligan considered this. “So Dad's had all those years to get used to clowns, and he still doesn't like them?”

“Not one bit,” Shamrock replied.

Hooligan nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that settles it. If Dad hasn't gotten used to them by now, I don't see why I should have to.”

Shamrock laughed. “And that's perfectly reasonable, Little Man.”

Clover stretched her front legs along the couch cushion. “I think I understand now. It's not really about whether a costume is ugly or pretty, scary or silly. It's about whether we can recognize what we're looking at and understand what's happening.”

“That's exactly it,” Shamrock said warmly. “And remember, everyone responds differently. Something that bothers one dog might not bother another. The same is true of people.”

Hooligan glanced toward his sister. “You weren't afraid of the clown the way I was.”

“No,” Clover admitted. “But I certainly didn't like that nurse.”

“And I didn't like those monsters.”

“I noticed,” Clover said gently.

Hooligan gave her a look, but there was no sting in her words.

Clover leaned toward him. “I think we both had a pretty frightening night.”

“We did,” Hooligan agreed.

“And we both made it through.”

Hooligan considered that, then smiled. “We did.”

Shamrock looked from one puppy to the other. “And neither of you has anything to be ashamed of. Being frightened doesn't make you foolish, and it doesn't mean you aren't brave. What matters is that you keep learning, and that you look out for one another.”

Clover's tail moved against the cushion. “We can do that.”

Hooligan nodded. “Definitely.”

A moment passed before he looked at Shamrock again.

“Can I still hate the clown?”

Shamrock laughed. “You can dislike the clown as much as you want.”

“Good.” Hooligan lowered his head onto his paws. “Because I really, really dislike that clown.”

Clover smiled at him. “I think we've established that.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Their mom appeared carrying a bowl of popcorn, with their dad following close behind. Hooligan immediately sat up, his attention shifting from Halloween monsters to the far more interesting possibility of food.

Shamrock watched the two puppies brighten at the sight of their parents and smiled. The evening had frightened them both, but it had taught them something, too. And now, at last, there was nothing more they needed to do except enjoy being together.

Their dad settled onto the couch beside their mom and turned on the television.

By the time the television was turned off, the whole house had gone quiet. Clover and Hooligan were overtired in the way only puppies can be overtired—too tired to settle and too silly to stop. Hooligan remembered Shamrock’s old pumpkin costume and began to giggle. “Shamrock,” he said. “Shamrock was a pumpkin.”

Clover started laughing. “A pumpkin with a handle.”

Hooligan’s eyes lit up. “I know why the Great Pumpkin never showed up for Linus!”

Clover rolled toward him. “Oh yeah? Why?”

Hooligan could barely get the words out. “Because Shamrock was the GREAT PUMPKIN, Charlie Brown!”

Clover collapsed onto her back, kicking all four feet in the air while she laughed. Hooligan immediately did the same. Shamrock sat watching the two ridiculous younger hounds writhing on the floor, and despite himself, he smiled. Their mom and dad looked over from the couch. Neither had any idea why the dogs had suddenly started wiggling and kicking their feet in the air. They did not need to know. The pups were happy. Everyone was home, safe, fed, and loved. Their mom finally stood and gathered the blankets from the couch. “Come on, guys. It’s time for bed.”

Clover and Hooligan managed to stop laughing long enough to get to their feet, each collecting their favorite stuffed toy before following their mom. Their dad moved around the room behind them, turning off the lights. At the bottom of the staircase, the pups stopped and looked back at Shamrock in unison. The uncertainty was small but unmistakable. They knew his visits could end without warning. Neither pup knew whether this was one of those times. Shamrock looked at them. For now, he was still with them. He was still here. A smile spread across his face. His tail wagged once, then again. He stretched and stood. “I’m coming too!”

The relief on Clover and Hooligan was immediate. They waited for him. Then, for the first time, all three Wolfhounds climbed the stairs together. They reached the hallway together and turned into their mom and dad’s room together. Their dad followed, looked back once at the darkened house, and softly closed the bedroom door.

************************

 The next afternoon, Halloween began disappearing into storage containers. Their dad carried the totes out from the shed while their mom took down the last of the decorations. Clover and Hooligan supervised with the fierce attention of two puppies who believed every open box might contain something interesting, something edible, or preferably both.

Shamrock sat beneath the weeping cherry tree, watching the activity with quiet amusement. From where he rested, he could see the driveway, the garage, and the shed where their mom and dad were sorting through the decorations. Clover had appointed herself inspector of everything being packed away, while Hooligan was enthusiastically helping their mom investigate containers that had already been investigated at least twice.

Their mom carefully wrapped the decorations that needed protecting, checking that everything was clean, dry, and ready to be put away until the following year. Their dad was stacking the containers when she appeared carrying the clown. Their mom carefully lowered the clown into its container.

Their dad watched her, shaking his head. “Well, at least we won't have to look at that thing again for another year.”

“Another YEAR?” Hooligan repeated, horrified. “It's coming BACK?”

Shamrock chuckled beneath the cherry tree. Hooligan turned toward him, clearly hoping for some reassurance, but Shamrock was grinning. “I'm beginning to think that clown is going to be a family tradition,” Shamrock said.

“That,” Hooligan replied, “is a terrible tradition.”

Their mom closed the lid, completely unaware of the conversation taking place around her. Their dad carried the container into the shed, and Hooligan watched until it disappeared from sight. Only then did he seem satisfied that the clown was no longer an immediate threat to the household.

With the last of Halloween safely packed away, their mom began opening the containers of Thanksgiving decorations. Out came autumn leaves, little pumpkins, colorful turkeys, and all sorts of things in shades of orange, gold, and brown. Their dad brought another container over, and their mom began talking about the holiday, wondering what they should put where and discussing their plans for Thanksgiving.

Hooligan wasn't particularly interested in the decorations until one word caught his attention. “Turkey.”

His head shot up. “Did she say TURKEY?”

Clover looked at him. “Yes, Hooligan. Thanksgiving.”

“There's TURKEY at Thanksgiving?”

“Usually.”

Hooligan's tail began wagging. “How much turkey?”

Shamrock laughed. “Knowing our Mom, enough to feed an army.”

Hooligan looked delighted. “Are we having an army over?”

“No,” Clover replied.

“Good. More turkey for us.”

Shamrock smiled as he watched the two puppies. He had loved Thanksgiving, too. He remembered the wonderful smells drifting through the house, the warmth of the kitchen, and the sound of their mom and dad talking and laughing as they prepared dinner. He remembered positioning himself where he could watch everything, just in case someone happened to need assistance with a piece of turkey.

But there was so much more to the holiday than the food. He remembered the family gathering together, the happiness in the house, the familiar voices, and the feeling of being exactly where he belonged. He remembered the way their mom looked at them, the way their dad laughed at their antics, and how wonderful it had been simply to share those days with the people he loved.

A gust of wind stirred the branches above him. Shamrock lifted his head. The air had changed. The breeze moving through the yard was stronger now, carrying a colder bite than it had only moments before. He watched a few leaves tumble across the grass, then turned his attention back toward the shed, where his family was still busy with the decorations.

Their mom had opened another container, and Hooligan was eagerly helping her explore its contents. She reached inside and pulled out a stuffed pilgrim man dressed in old-fashioned clothes, complete with a tall hat and shoes with enormous buckles.

Hooligan stared. “What in the world is THAT?”

Clover glanced over. “A pilgrim.”

Hooligan leaned closer, examining the little man's outfit. “Look at those SHOES!”

Clover giggled.

“And that HAT! Who dressed this guy?”

He circled the stuffed pilgrim, his tail wagging as he thought of another joke. Then he turned toward the weeping cherry tree, already grinning.

“Shamrock! Would you LOOK at this guy? He looks like—”

Hooligan stopped. Shamrock wasn't there.

For a moment, he simply stared at the empty space beneath the tree. Then he glanced toward the garage.

“Shamrock?”

Perhaps he'd wandered over there. He hadn't been beside them every minute of the past few days. Sometimes he went around the house or disappeared from sight for a little while, only to turn up again as though he'd never been gone.

Hooligan trotted toward the garage and looked inside. “Shamrock? You in here?”

There was no answer. He checked around the side of the house, then hurried behind the shed. Nothing. He returned to the tree and looked around its trunk, as though Shamrock might somehow be sitting on the other side.

“Shamrock?” His voice was louder now.

He ran toward the back of the house, then came racing into the yard again.

“SHAMROCK!”

Clover lifted her head. Something in Hooligan's voice made her stop what she was doing.

“Where ARE you?” he called, spinning around. “Come on, Shamrock! Where'd you go?”

Clover looked toward the weeping cherry tree. She had last seen her big brother sitting there, watching them. She remembered how peaceful he'd looked, how happy he'd seemed just being near his family.

Now the grass beneath the tree was empty. Clover stood very still. She knew.

“Hooligan,” she called gently.

But Hooligan was already running toward the driveway. “He has to be here somewhere!”

“Hooligan.”

He raced back toward her, then stopped and looked around again. “Maybe he's behind the house! I didn't look everywhere!”

“Hooligan,” Clover said softly.

“No!” He shook his head. “He didn't leave us again!”

Clover took a step toward him.

“He can't leave us again!” Hooligan cried. “He CAN'T! He was just here! He was RIGHT HERE!”

“Hooligan.”

“No!”

He turned as though he were going to run again, but this time his legs wouldn't move. He looked toward the tree one last time, searching the empty grass where Shamrock had been sitting.

“Shamrock?” he whispered.

There was no answer. Hooligan slowly sat down in the middle of the yard. His nose began to run, and the tears came before he could stop them. He lowered his head, his long ears hanging beside his face.

Clover walked over to him. She wanted to tell him that Shamrock would be back in a minute, that he was only around the corner, that everything was going to be all right. But she couldn't. She knew how much Hooligan had come to love Shamrock, and she knew how badly he wanted him to stay. She wanted her big brother to stay, too. Her own nose began to run.

Clover pressed her shoulder against Hooligan's, and he leaned into her. They sat together in the grass, two enormous puppies holding each other up, crying for the hound they loved. Neither said anything for a while.

Their mom looked up from the Thanksgiving decorations and noticed them sitting together.

“Oh, look at their noses,” she said, frowning with concern. “They're running again. Do you think they're getting sick?”

Their dad glanced toward the puppies. “Nah. They've been running all over the yard. They're fine.”

“But look at them,” their mom insisted. “Both of them!”

Their dad studied the two hounds for a moment, then shrugged. “They're probably hungry.” He looked toward Clover and Hooligan. “Who wants to eat?”

Normally, those three words would have sent both puppies scrambling to their feet. But this time, neither moved. Clover lifted her head slightly. Hooligan remained pressed against her, staring at the grass between his paws.

Their dad waited a moment. “Come on, you two. Lunch!”

Clover's ears twitched. She glanced toward their dad, then looked back at Hooligan. He hadn't moved. She gently nudged his cheek with her nose.

“Hooligan,” she whispered. “Dad's making lunch.”

“I know.” He didn't look up.

Clover rested her head against his for a moment. She missed Shamrock terribly, too. She wanted to stay beneath the tree and wait for him, even though she knew he wasn't coming back today. But their dad was calling them, and Hooligan couldn't sit in the grass forever.

“Come on,” she said softly. “We should go.”

Hooligan finally lifted his head. He looked toward the weeping cherry tree one more time, his eyes still wet.

“Do you think he knows we're going to miss him?”

Clover pressed her nose against his cheek. “Yes, I do. I also think he knows how much we love him.”

Hooligan swallowed and leaned against her for another moment. Then his ears shifted toward their dad.

“Did he say lunch?”

Clover gave a small, watery laugh. “Yes, Hooligan. He said lunch.”

Hooligan sniffed. “I'm hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

He slowly got to his feet, and Clover stood beside him. They started toward their dad, walking rather than racing, their tails beginning to move just a little.

Before reaching their dad, Clover and Hooligan stopped to retrieve Bird and Pig, which they had left somewhere in the yard earlier. They picked up their toys and continued toward the house together.

Their dad smiled at their mom. “See? Told you. Nothing wrong with those two.”

He headed toward the garage, and the puppies followed. Their mom watched them go, still troubled by their running noses and how unusually quiet they'd been.

Inside the garage, however, the mention of lunch was beginning to work its familiar magic. Clover picked up her pace. Hooligan glanced at her, then at the door leading into the house. His ears perked up, and he quickened his steps to match hers.

Their mom heard the unmistakable clicking of enormous toenails against the concrete floor. Then the clicking became a rapid clatter. Then came the scrambling.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she muttered.

Clover and Hooligan had apparently reached a mutual understanding that whoever got through the door first would somehow get lunch first. Unfortunately, their dad was standing directly in front of that door. Neither puppy considered this an obstacle worth slowing down for.

There was a tremendous shuffling of paws, and the unmistakable sound of two giant Irish Wolfhounds attempting to squeeze through a doorway already occupied by a grown man.

“REALLY???!!!” their dad bellowed as he was smooshed between the puppies and the doorframe.

Their mom burst out laughing. “Those dogs are going to be the death of you yet!” she called after him.

“I KNOW!” their dad yelled back, just as the door slammed shut behind him.

Their mom stopped and looked back at the front yard. Her eyes were drawn toward the center, coming to rest on the weeping cherry tree. It was her favorite tree, given to her by the dogs on Mother’s Day several years ago. She smiled softly at the memory of the day she’d received it.

For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw a large shadow beside the tree.

A shiver ran through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Shaking her head, she muttered aloud that she missed summer and wasn’t looking forward to the freezing cold weather ahead. She walked into the garage, turned, and closed the door.

* * *******

 Halloween has always been a celebration of things we cannot quite explain. Its traditions reach back through centuries, through ancient Ireland and the festival of Samhain, when people believed the boundary between the living and the dead grew thin.

Across centuries and cultures, people have found different ways to remember those who came before them, honor those they have lost, and make sense of the mysteries that surround life and death.

In ancient Ireland, there were fires to light the darkness, disguises to confuse wandering spirits, and offerings left for those who might come visiting. There were stories told around hearths, memories shared, and places kept in the hearts of families for those who were no longer there.

All Hallows' Eve and All Saints' Day brought traditions of remembrance and honoring the departed into the Christian calendar. And in Mexico, Día de Muertos, the Day of the Dead, offers another beautiful expression of remembrance, celebrating the lives of loved ones through photographs, flowers, candles, favorite foods, and family gatherings.

These celebrations have different histories, meanings, and customs. Yet each, in its own way, reminds us that those who came before us are not simply forgotten.

Over time, traditions changed. Turnips became pumpkins. Ancient disguises became elaborate costumes. Children filled the streets with laughter, and the darkness filled with glowing jack-o'-lanterns. But something of the old meaning remained.

Halloween is still a night for remembering. For telling stories about those who came before us. For finding laughter in the darkness, courage in the unfamiliar, and comfort in the love that surrounds us.

And throughout the centuries, another belief has endured. That during this special time of year, when the seasons change and these celebrations of remembrance come around once more, the veil separating our world from the next grows thin. That perhaps, for a few precious moments, the distance between the living and those who have passed becomes a little smaller.

Perhaps those we love and miss so terribly can find their way home again. Not forever. Not even for very long. Just long enough to hear the familiar laughter, walk through the places they once loved, and spend a little more time with the family they never truly left behind.

Perhaps they come to remind us that love doesn't end when a life does. And perhaps, if we're very fortunate, we are given one more chance to feel them near us, even if we never quite understand how.

After all, some things in this world are not meant to be explained. Only treasured. And perhaps, every once in a while, the distance between yesterday and today is not quite as great as we imagine.

************

 One young Wolfhound discovered that being brave doesn't mean never being frightened. One spirited puppy learned that even the strongest among us sometimes need someone to stand beside them. And one wise old Wolfhound returned to find that, although much had changed, the most important things had not.

The laughter was still there. The mischief was certainly still there. And the love? That had never gone anywhere.

Some stories are told to frighten us. Others remind us that love is stronger than anything we fear. And sometimes, the very best ghost stories aren't really about ghosts at all. They're about family.

From one wise old Wolfhound who remembered.

Two young hounds with a lifetime of adventures still ahead.

And one ordinary family whose love had room for everyone—even those they could no longer see.

HAPPY SEASON OF SPIRITS!