I slept like a desert last night, shifting and rolling. More dog dreams. My mother’s dogs multiplied to two and then three. We left poor Molly at home and took the other two on a night walk; another nervous black lab, skinny and clenched, and a curly mutt with more hair than eyeball. We set off down the street, a street I often fly along in dreams (a running motion, but crouched, paddling over the pavement to maintain momentum), and my mother ran on ahead. I could barely keep up. My shifting dog (German shepherd, hound) kept darting into the heavy traffic. “Turn your lights on!” I yelled, exasperated.
Sometimes a dog is just a dog, but I don’t think that’s the case now. I’m waiting in these dreams for the dogs to stand up on hind legs, remove dog faces, become an ex-boyfriend or a missing person or a grandmother. So far they stubbornly remain dogs, tugging the leash and talking about their dinners, but if I keep an eye out they’re sure to slip up eventually and then I’ll know…well, something.