Free Dog Named Leaf by Allen Anderson Page B

the little dog. I glanced over on the other side of the bed. Linda was there, still asleep.
    “It was a dream. A nightmare,” I whispered to Leaf and hugged him tightly into my chest. I was surprised that he let me. His soothing touch helped my racing heartbeat to slow down.
    The disheveled sheets indicated that I must have been thrashing about, frantically searching for the elusive ticket counter. I listened to the steady intake and exhale of Linda’s breath, but her serene face in the morning light did not comfort me. She, with everyone else I had ever known, had left me behind. Leaf lay still and drifted off to sleep on my chest. I chided myself for not being able to shake off the anger, desperation, and confusion I’d felt in the nightmare.
    Later that morning I sat in the living room with Linda. We drank our coffee and glanced out the picture window at children boarding the school bus across the street. I told her about the vivid dream. With hisfront and back legs fully extended, Leaf lay flat on the gray carpet in front of me and listened intently.
    At first I wondered if I should talk to Linda about the nightmare. I did not want to burden my wife with what to me seemed like a premonition of catastrophic loss. But did she need to be prepared? What if the dream presented something that I knew inside of me but hadn’t been able to face?
    Linda listened quietly while I described the dream. She asked, “Did you try to go back into the dream and finish it?” I told her that I woke up with a start. Leaf had been there to comfort me. Her face turned pale.
    For a few moments we sat silently. The sounds of children’s laughter on the sidewalk had ended with the arrival of the school bus. Linda got up and put her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder.
    “It’s only a possibility.” I cringed at the tremor in her voice. We both knew from our spiritual studies that dreams have meaning. They often warn the dreamer of things to come. “Maybe it’s what could happen in some alternate universe. But not here. Not to us,” she assured me. I squeezed her shoulder, unable to speak. “And besides, I’m not letting go of you.”
    I yearned to believe her soothing words. Like Jaws going after Leaf in the dog park, the dream wouldn’t let go. Besides, I could tell Linda wasn’t as certain as she tried to appear. Her assurances had sounded more like questions.
    More than anything, I wanted to believe that the dream was unimportant, a perfectly understandable but inconsequential expression of anxiety. Yet I couldn’t shake off the sensation that I’d foreseen the outcome of the brain aneurysm and surgery. It wasn’t the happy ending I needed.
    Leaf stood up and came over to us. He stared at me with his penetrating coal eyes. Then he jumped onto the couch and sat by my other side. He lowered his body next to mine and put his head on my knee. I stroked the smooth fur on his forehead. The pall of the dream draped over me like a shroud.

    During the next few days, Leaf started acting oddly. He’d paw the living room coffee table until any newspaper, envelope, or magazine on top of it fell to the floor. With great focus and attention, he shredded them into tiny scraps. Each time I discovered scattered papers on the floor, I’d ask, “Leaf, what are you doing?” His behavior puzzled me. He’d never been like Taylor, who gnawed on anything that looked chewable. Why had he suddenly started ripping up papers?
    As if trying to answer my question, Leaf would pick up one of the smaller shreds in his mouth and bring it to me. As soon as he delivered one piece, he’d grab another shred with his mouth and give it to me. With great determination, he persisted by tearing larger pieces of newspapers and magazines and gripping them in his jaws. He’d repeatedly shake his head and rip them into fragments. Then he’d bring the scraps to me. “Stop!” I’d finally yell at him.
    I’d either scoop the papers off the floor or