Dogs at the Door | The Dreamweaver

I’m back in the old apartment at 6433 N. Washtenaw, the place where I lived from fourteen to eighteen.

The kitchen is dark and Wendy is standing there, facing me but saying nothing at first. When I ask where she’s been, she says one word: “Poo.”

I think I misheard her, so I ask again. She repeats it. “Poo.” 

I move toward her and ask once more, trying to catch whatever she’s saying in the quiet of the kitchen.

When I get close enough, she says it again—“poo”—and I see the dogs standing by the back door, waiting.

I go into my bedroom off the kitchen, the old maid’s room, and pull on my sweatpants over my underwear. I slip my wool-lined Crocs back on, then head to the pantry to grab two carrier bags for the poo, of course.

Then I woke up.