Begging For More
My dreams all start the same way: with my childhood dog standing in my old bedroom’s doorway, waiting for his morning walk. His collar isn’t worn from years of wear and tear, and instead, looks almost brand new. He has no white fluff around his face; he’s exactly how I remember him growing up. Small variations of things differ from each dream. Maybe the way I wake up changes, or my room appears slightly different, but my dog always remains the same. When I finally get out of bed, he runs to me, tail wagging and ears perked upwards. Sometimes, if I remain in my bed for too long, he walks over from the doorway to nudge my arm, hanging off the side of the mattress. The dream never feels strange or scary, but instead, it feels just right.
Once we finally start our walk, the paths we choose are always changing. Sometimes, we go around the neighborhood, stopping occasionally in front of a house so he can sniff the grass in their yard. Other times, we head downtown and casually stroll the empty streets. It’s always peaceful, and the weather is consistently warm with a slight breeze. I always enjoy our walks, and the soft jingle of his dog tags, hanging off his collar, bumping into each other.
When I finally wake up in real time, I can usually recall the dreams with startling clarity. And after months of them reoccurring, I begin to wonder if it’s more like a memory than anything else. I scroll on my phone wishing I had more photos of my childhood dog; most of the ones I have are from his older years. It was easier to take pictures once he had begun to slow down, and I didn’t want to run the risk of forgetting what he had looked like. Sometimes that happens – you remember your childhood pet based on their breed, but you start to forget the little details. Wasn’t my dog’s left paw white, like he was wearing a sock? Maybe it was his right paw. I’ll make sure to check again the next time I’m dreaming.
The next time I awaken in my dream, I can’t even recall falling asleep. I immediately wake up to my dog standing in the bedroom doorway. Almost like he’s been waiting for me. I call him over, and he comes, tail wagging. I make a mental note: his back left paw looks like he’s wearing a sock. Our routine remains the same, except this time I make it a point to scratch the top of his head. His fur feels soft and warm under my touch, and he leans into the palm of my hand. I call him my good-boy and walk him home.
This goes on for a few more weeks, until I awaken in my childhood bedroom once again. Except this time the doorway is empty, I slide out of the comfort of my warm bed to leave the room behind me. Walking down the hallway, I make it to the top of a staircase. I call out to him but there’s no response. No pitter-patter of paws running towards my voice. It’s strange, I think, something feels so different this time. When I make it to the bottom of the staircase, I face the front door of my house. It hangs wide open, and it’s dark outside. I’m barefoot in my pajamas as I walk into a world that feels colder. I try to call out once more, to no avail. I walk around the side of my house, gravel from the driveway crunching under my shoes, squinting through the dark. The gate in the fence leading to the backyard is also swung open, beckoning me forward. I step onto a cool patch of grass and shiver.
The backyard is the same as I remember it, lightly lit by the glow of the moon. The swing set is still built but remains motionless even as a slight breeze passes. And there, next to the old shed, is my dog. He’s lying down on the grass, and looks at me as I face him, but does not get up off the ground. I call to him, but his ears no longer perk up at the sound of my voice. I squat slightly, patting the tops of my thighs, but he remains unmoving. He blinks, but that is the only sign of recognition that he allows me. And so, we remain like this for what feels like an eternity. A staring contest between two old friends. I’m scared to move and lose him, but I know my dream is nearing its end. I can feel it somewhere deep within me. The stirring of the sun begging to finally rise. I slowly straighten my bent knees, making one last mental note of how he looks. Not scared, or cold, just tired. You’re a good-boy, I whisper, and he blinks. I slowly turn around and begin my journey back to the house. I don’t allow myself to look back at him – I know he’s watching me leave. And when I finally crawl back into my childhood bed, it’s already the next day. I never have those dreams again.
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