Penny had a not-a-dog. It wasn't
exactly invisible, but it was an absence rather than a presence. You could pet it, but it wasn't warm or
solid, and it was not fuzzy at all. It
stared at her without devotion or loyalty as she fed it something that was nothing
like kibble. After dinner, Penny let it
outside to excrete unfamiliar substances and make noises that were not
barks. Over red wine, we discussed her
new lack of a pet.
“Did you consider a cat?” I asked.
“They tried that,” she said. “No
one was sure which one wasn't it.”
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