Sometimes my dreams haunt me after I wake.
Take this morning.
It's early, and I wake to the sound of something moving around in my bedroom. I roll over, semi-alert, and find the bedroom door is open. Light filters in through the blinds at the far end of the landing, though my room is mercifully dark. I'm not a morning person.
But it's odd; I always sleep with the door closed, and I don't recall getting up during the night. Not that that's a reliable indicator of anything.
Besides, it doesn't explain the snuffling and the general sounds of rummaging, unseen at floor level. Perhaps one of the badgers has let themselves in? I keep odds and ends - cables and connectors mostly - in a box under my bed; maybe they need something for a project?
The sound ceases suddenly, and silence envelops the room. It extends unreasonably, far beyond the endurance of the shyest of badgers.
But then, like a furry eruption, a dog leaps onto the bed. He's small, lively, mischievous-looking, and pretty darned cute.
Oh, of course, it's my dog!
I fuss him, and he wags effusively. What's his name? Reggie. Reggie? Yes, Reggie.
No, wait, I don't have a dog.
I rub my eyes as he drops from the bed and runs out of the room. Whose dog was that? What time is it? I need answers.
Miranda? Miranda! Are you there, babe?
Miranda doesn't reply. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, somewhat bemused, in the warm wreckage of my bedclothes. And I think about a nice cup of tea.
Miranda? I creak upwards and walk towards the light. Onwards, forwards, meet the day. Good morning kiss, put the kettle on, tea, breakfast. Oh, and find out about the dog.
A dog? Was there a dog? Did I dream the dog? I sniff my hand sleepily; there's no doggy smell to it. Did I just fuss a dog? What was his name? I don't recall. Why should I? He's not mine, after all.
Grabbing my dressing gown, I pass through the dim, wooden-floored landing and onto the carpet of my front room. I wonder idly where the stairs are. Was that the landing I walked through, or my hallway?
I flop into a leather armchair, still muddle-headed.
The redhead is nowhere to be seen. I half expected to find her dozing in a chair in front of a quiet TV, wearing one of my shirts; she doesn't always sleep well, and often gets up before me. I wonder what our plans for the day are?
I remember the tea, and rise to fill and start the kettle. I notice that the room seems a little bare. Spartan, almost. No, that's wrong. More Sparse than Spartan. Magnolia-painted walls with a couple of forgettable hanging prints, minimal furniture. Clean and tidy without being fussy, but few cushions, no flowers or air fresheners, and precious little colour apart from the pizza boxes.
All very single male. I have no idea how she puts up with it.
How who puts up with it? I look to the sofa. Melissa, was it? No wait, I live alone. Have done for years. And I never lived with a redhead. What am I thinking?
And what was that about a dog?
Fifteen minutes later, after a cup of tea in my favourite armchair, I'm wide awake, and feeling rather foolish. Man, that dream sure clung to me. But the curtains are now open, the sun is shining, and I'm ready for the day.
There's a knock at the door, and I rise steadily to answer it. Passing through the hallway, I spy the familiar hulking shape through the glass of the door. I open it to welcome my friend.
BEAR! Good to see you matey! Come in! I've just made tea!
Five minutes later, I'm back in my armchair with a fresh cup, and Bear is sitting on the sofa. Well, occupying it; he's a big lad. He's put some quiet music on; some Rimsky Korsakov, I think? The black bear sits quietly, sipping tea from a tiny cup held precariously in his huge paws. He smiles amiably.
This is excellent tea, Monsieur.
Wait. What were we just talking about?
Bear casts his gaze about as he fusses the happy dog on his lap.
So, where's Miranda?
I decide to head back to bed. I'll wake up properly later.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
Pooch pinched from How To Select A Dog