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.”