Some stories are partially true.

In the early morning light, as the rain gently fell, the old man dug the grave in the garden beneath his bedroom window. The garden was where all the pets were buried. Dog, cat, hamster, even a goldfish. If you were loved, you were given a place in the garden.

He paused, leaning against his shovel, and measured the size of the grave against that of the pug. How could such a small hole hold so much love? Next spring, he would plant mint there; his dog, Rocky, loved mint and would always rub against it when he was let outside to do the things that dogs do - chase squirrels, roll in the grass, and - the old man swore this was true - smell the flowers in the butterfly section.

"Back to work," he muttered to himself, "the dang grave isn't going to dig itself." And he resumed shoveling, his tears mixing with the rain.

Years later, after the old man and his wife had passed away and the home was sold to a young couple, the wife was digging in the garden, uprooting all that mint, when she came across the bones of small animals. She laughed guessing what had happened – after all she had small children and had held a funeral for a hamster herself. It was when she uncovered a partial human skull that she stopped and called the police.

Seems that the old man had a sense of humor and had bought a skull during Halloween and buried it in the garden. His dog would have appreciated the joke much more than the police did.