dogs teaching dream books

This morning during my spare block I went to the hardware store to buy castors for the set for my play. (I like it when my sets spin.)  In front of me in line was a man with a dog, an Italian Greyhound, wearing a green Christmas sweater.

In other parts of the world (though not Italy; I checked) Italian Greyhounds may be common and popular pets, but here they are not.  When I take my dogs outside I am perpetually stopped by people.  What kind of dog is that?  And once even, Is that a dog?  So I was sort of surprised to see an Italian Greyhound buying a hammer and some nails, and even more surprised at myself for becoming one of those weirdos that feels the need to talk to strangers in stores.  I needed him (the human attached to the dog) to know that I have Italian Greyhounds too.

I needed him to know that I, too, understand their delicate little emotions, that I also have foresaken going on holiday with my husband for the rest of their lives so they won't feel scared or sad or lonely or unsafe, because I, like he, truly know what it feels like to be loved.  Because Italian Greyhound people are insane, he was thoroughly delighted by my intrusion into his world and we talked outside the hardware store for fifteen minutes like a pair of lunatics.  I know all about his wife (former teacher), his Post Office worker retirement pension plan, where he buys his groceries, where he buys his dog gear, who is his favourite veterinarian, where he likes to walk, and so on and so forth.  I stopped short of inviting them to come over and meet my dogs, but only because I had to go back to work.


*

At lunch I met with Mr. CreepyBeard to talk about our social skills program.  I used to think it was ironic that I was selected to teach social skills, being that mine are a bit shaky, but compared to Mr. CreepyBeard I've got it going on.  Mr. CreepyBeard gives away too much information about Mrs. CreepyBeard and their Creepy Apartment and their Creepy Landlord and their Creepy Neighbours while we are meant to be talking about cognitive behaviour therapy.  (As a sidebar, when I first met Mrs. CreepyBeard I said, Hello, it's nice to meet you!  This wasn't especially creative on my part but at least it was predictable.  Mrs. CreepyBeard stared at me and did not respond other than to make a barely audible grunt.)  In the end I felt we accomplished nothing, so I took a pile of books and told him I would email him my work.  I find it difficult to work with Mr. CreepyBeard, very very difficult.


*

Last night I dreamed I was walking slowly across a large body of water, maybe a river.  It was deep, chest height, but not over my head, and the current was fast and trying to pull me under into cold water.  To add to the challenge, I was holding Ophelia in my arms and trying to prevent her from getting wet.  She was not pleased.


*

I am reading, somehow, several things at once.  Canary, by Nancy Jo Cullen.  It is odd when you approach reading a series of short stories as though they are a cohesive book.


*