dream

This morning I wake up in my cozy bed, way too early for Julia to make me breakfast. She and her mom and dad are still asleep, and even the guinea pigs are silent. My belly grumbles, and once again I curse my thumblessness.

Humans are one big design flaw. The inferior noses. The inscrutable, humdrum rumps. And don’t get me started on their—ahem—odor. But the opposable thumb idea? Yeah, that was a nice upgrade.

The cans I could open! The doorknobs I could conquer!

Anyways. I feel worried. Off.

Worry’s a waste of time. And it doesn’t fit with my tough-guy act. But sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.

Before I woke up, I’d been dreaming about Ivan and Ruby and Stella.

It wasn’t a nice dream, a fun-and-run toe-twitcher.

Nope. This one was a nightmare. A bad one.

We were swimming, all four of us, in a black, raging river. For some reason, I was in the lead. And I kept looking back, telling them I was gonna save them.

Me. Save them. Two elephants and a gorilla.

As I paddled like mad, their voices faded. I looked behind me and they’d vanished.

And then I heard it.

A faint bark.

That bark.

I woke up then, like I always do.

I did an all-over shake, trying to toss off the stench of nightmare that clung to me like shampoo after a bath.

I told myself to chill. Get a grip. Stop worrying about nothing.

And yet, some primitive part of my brain—the wolf in me, maybe—is on edge.

A lot can go wrong in the moment left to chance, the blink of an eye, the bounce of a bone.

There are so many ways the world can find to fail you.