“Psycho…what?!?” I’m squinting at the laminated business card the scraggly pooch has dropped at my feet from between his teeth.

“Pomp. Just like it looks,” he whines. He reminds me of my first dog, Scruff, from second and third grades. Scruff whined too. Dad called him a bedragglement. Kicked him a lot. Mom said he was better off on the farm.

“Is that even a word?”

“It’s a job,” he woofs, passing me a frayed green duffel. I peer inside. Fuzzy pink slippers, just my size. A flowered nightgown, ditto. Questions hang in the air for me to pluck. “For the duration,” he explains as he jumps into the river, paddles around, retrieves a rickety wooden boat. “Get in.” I stay rooted to the spot. “In your own time,” he adds, chomping at an invisible bit. He shakes his whole body. Droplets fly in all directions.

Finally, I can move. I rest my hand on my chest, surprised the irregular flutter is gone. I ball up my old clothes, step into the new ones.

The boat rocks as we pile in. We float in place, quiet, for a few minutes. “That was no farm,” he tells me as he grips the oars, heads for the other side.