Salty Dog
Dreamed 2024/1/24 by Wayan
I bike out along a half-flooded pier jutting north from the Marina near Fisherman's Wharf. Wooden benches face the pier's end, as in a train car or bus, not outward to look east to Alcatraz or west to the Golden Gate. Bike out to the last dry benches--well, damp, they WERE under, but not now; the water's slowly dropping. Ebb tide, or a storm surge fading?
While I wait for the end of the pier to emerge--I need to reach its end--I pull a handwritten, penciled journal from my pocket. It's not mine--I'm snooping. Sit crosslegged and read. Faint. Slow going. Wait, is this fiction? This entry purports to be a dream--not a remarkable dream except for the source: not the journal writer, but a talking dog that the writer knows.
A dog now dead. From drinking too much salt water. Forced it down daily for weeks; believed in some radical diet. Shouldn't have!
I'm so disappointed. I'll never get to interview the dog, verify the dream is real, and publish the first authenticated dog dream.
Brine wrecks it all. Argh!
And I wake.
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