The dog at 311 never barks in my dreams

I'm walking my old route at night, every doorstep stacked with newspapers I never delivered. But the dog at 311 just sits there waiting, not barking, tail thumping the porch like it's keeping time. I kneel to pet him and my hands go right through—then I wake up and it's 4 a.m. and the only sound is the radiator.