Crenshaw

40

I woke in the night, sweaty and startled. I’d been having a dream. Something about a giant talking cat with a bubble beard.

Oh.

Aretha, who likes to share my pillow when she can get away with it, was drooling onto the pillowcase. Her feet were dream-twitching. I wondered if she was dreaming about Crenshaw. She’d certainly seemed to like him.

Wait. I felt my brain screech to a halt, like a cartoon character about to careen off a cliff.

Aretha had seen Crenshaw.

At the very least, she’d reacted to him. She’d tried to lick him. She’d tried to play with him. She’d seemed to know he was there.

Dogs have amazing senses. They can tell when a person is about to have a seizure. They can hear sounds when we hear only silence. They can unearth a piece of hot dog buried at the bottom of a neighbor’s trash can.

But however amazing dogs can be, they cannot see somebody’s imaginary friend. They cannot jump into their owner’s brain.

So did that mean Crenshaw was real? Or was Aretha just responding to my body language? Could she tell I was freaking out? Or did she figure I’d come up with a brand-new game called Let’s Play with the Giant Invisible Cat?

I tried to recall how she’d acted back when we were living in our minivan. Had she sensed Crenshaw’s presence then?

I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.

I covered my face with my drooly pillow and tried to go back to sleep.