I dreamt last night that I was walking down the street with a friend, when we came upon a woman and a postal worker who were looking in a sidewalk plant container. In the container was a small dog that could fit into the palm of your hand. It looked back at me and water came gushing out of its mouth. Then it fell over unconscious. Oh my god, I said, it's dying.
I walked closer. The man picked up the dog, and threw it at the tiny, white metal fence in the center of the plant container. The dog fell short, on its back, and he went to throw it again, I surmised to impale it. Stop, I said, let it die in peace. He looked at me. I thought he was thinking, it's going to die anyway, so what does it matter.
I took the dog in my hands and walked away with it. He followed me. His friend followed, worried. I started to run and he ran behind me. He wanted to get the dog and hurt it. He had a sneer on his face, angry that I had taken away his prey. He walked sort of tilted to the side. I ran up a street and into a post office. I thought it would be safe in there.
I told a postal worker wearing a blue swearter my story. Another one listened behind her. I told her a man was chasing me, and that he was postal worker, and the one in the back went to file a report. The man came in the door, saw us talking, and then walked back out. I hoped he would drop the whole thing when he saw his job might be threatened. I hoped he wouldn't stalk me or anything.
Somehow the post office was also a vet's office. I gave the small, still unconscious dog to the woman, who took her to the back of the office to be cared for. I waited. I saw the first woman, who I had seen with the man earlier, waiting outside. She cared about the dog. She had a look of concern on her face. She was with another man, now, who had on a long, black wool coat. The postal worker came to tell me that the dog was stablilized and she was going to be all right, that she could go home in a few days. I realized I hadn't thought of that. I gave her my number.
My brother came in looking worried. I got stressed when I saw him. He ran his fingers through his hair. I walked past him and went to tell the woman outside about the dog. I ripped off a piece of the paper the postal worker had given me about the dog and wrote my number on it so she could call me and see how she was doing.l I thought she might want to adopt her when she got better.
Then the man in the wool coat came up to us, upset. He had just gotten a call. His mother was really, really sick and he had to go to her. They didn't have a good relationship. He didn't want to go.
I told him: Miserable for a few days is better than a lifetime of regret.
