When I was younger -- in my early teens -- I remember sitting in my bed one night, talking on the telephone. Some girl. Not important. My lights were out and it was dark outside.

My window looked over the strip of lawn between our house and the neighbor's fence. The fence was fairly tall and I had reclined in bed, so it seemed taller than it really was. I saw maybe three inches of night-indigo sky and three feet of murky black fence. No moon.

So I sat there, talking on the phone. All of the sudden, utterly out of the blue, I felt an overwhelming urge to look outside. I didn't hear anything and I wasnt expecting anyone to sneak by. I just felt like I had to look out the window.

An Irish wolfhound had stopped outside my window, three-quarters turned away from me. It sat there. In the arbitrary space between house and fence. No light indicating anyone was inside. It didn't even turn its head.

I whispered into the phone, "There's a strange dog outside." Nobody in the neighborhood kept an Irish wolfhound. Hell, nobody even wanted an Irish wolfhound.

My phone conversation went on, the cadence and pitch of the girl's voice taking the interloping dog off my mind incrementally. An hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half later, I suddenly felt the need to look outside again.

I can't describe the dread adequately. The full action took maybe six seconds -- prop myself up on my elbow, bring my hand up to the blinds, lift one and tilt my head side to side. Anticipation made it feel like six minutes.

The dog still sat there, stock still, in the same position. Then it turned, looked at me, and smiled.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the morning. I don't recall ending the phone conversation. I don't recall anything after the dog's smile, in fact. I have no idea how I got to sleep that night. It still unsettles me to think about it now, so I can't imagine just rolling over and letting sleep wash over me.

I think that dog was a person.