Sufi is a dog.
She has stars for eyes.
Her soft blue fur is dappled with comet dust, and her rabbity ears are like antennas to another dimension.
She is the color of warm velvet, and smells like a rain shower falling softly inside a corn chip factory.
Sufi doesn’t like her doggy body.
“It’s too earthy,” she says. “I’m a star dog. Star dogs don’t have legs and ears and noses and tails. They are balls of energy that sail through the cosmos bringing light and heat.”
“This Earth body is too heavy. And grass makes me itch. Star dogs don’t sit on grass. They perch on moons. I don’t like being solid. I’m scared of matter.”
“Matter or mattering?” I ask her.
“Both I guess,” she answers sadly.
I hold her paws in my hand. “I love your body,” I whisper as I gently squeeze each foot. “I love your smush face and your piglet tail. Your body is the cutest body I’ve ever seen.”
I press my pointed nose to her flat one, close my eyes and inhale her.
But still her body is strange to her, foreign because it is of the Earth and she isn’t. She craves the stars.
“Sufi, the Earth is really a star. It radiates white-hot in the center. It is mostly gas, like you are some days when you eat too much earthly food. The grass is this star’s blanket. It is a soft place to lie down and look up – up at the twinkling worlds you miss. The stars where you swim in liquid silver and drink dandelions for dinner. Where every dream is in Technicolor and every being is awake all the time.”
She breathes in the truth, and her fears leave with every exhale. I feel her grow heavier – living in herself instead of the Milky Way.
“I am matter,” she says. “I am star matter. I am a star on a star.” And her eyes sparkle in a new way because she knows who she is.
Then we join hand to paw and in our bodies that are matter, that do matter, we wander around the Earth telling people the truth: “The Earth is a star, and so are you.”