My Grandmother's Wooden Dog

My grandmother's dog hung in the corridor of her house in Amsterdam. It was a nasty little wooden fellow and she called him Axel. My grandmother used to say that Axel came alive at night. He ran through her dusty rooms and he barked and bit in my imagination. His eyes, red and glistening, gazed at everyone at any time. My grandmother survived her husband and all her friends, and she was very proud of that. She died at the age of 94. Shortly after she had died, I was alone in her house. My dead grandmother lay on a bed in the living room, with a content smile on her face. I touched her hands and they were rigid, like they were made of wood. Axel gazed at me and gave me the creeps. His eyes seemed to glow red. A few days later my father gave me the pet. He said my wooden grandmother wanted me to have it.