Custard doesn’t bark.
She just blinks – once for no, twice for yes, and three times if the answer involves cake.
She sleeps on the windowsill above the Fluffletown library, next to the shelf where overdue books go to think.
Every afternoon at 4:17, she hops into a teacup and waits.
Sometimes for a breeze.
Sometimes for a page turn.
Sometimes for someone to notice the strawberry on her head and ask,
“Is that real?”