It was, I believe, the third time that the small, hard, moist rubber ball struck my forehead and dropped to my pillow that I awakened fully (or dreamed I had done). The gaze that met my own was that of my dog Roland, his coal-black snout, drooping brown ears, and handsome chalk-and-charcoal face so beautifully illuminated by the pale golden glow of the rush light beyond my open bedroom door that he looked like a saint or bodhisattva wrapped in a haze of glory.
“Ah,” I said, clearing my throat and slightly raising my head, “yes . . . I don’t actually have any treats with me just now, and—”
But he interrupted me with his soft, slightly amused voice (so hauntingly reminiscent of Laurence Harvey’s): “No, no, I’m not playing that silly ‘Give’ game you like so much.”
“Oh,” I said, still gathering my wits. “Then why . . . ?”
“I was wondering whether you were dreaming,” said Roland; “and, if so, whether you’d be able to recognize the transition from one state to the other if I roused you.” His snout momentarily came nearer and he briefly sniffed about my lips and nostrils. “Yes,” he said, drawing back again, “you seem alert now. So—can you?”
I cleared my throat again. “Well, yes . . . of course.”
“Are you sure?” said Roland, drawing out the last syllable doubtfully. “Can you really?”—again, the last word skeptically prolonged.
“Of course,” I answered. “Why do you even ask?”
