There was a lot of narrative to the dream before I entered the restaurant, but all I can remember of that narrative now is that the dog belonged to a dour white-haired guy who looked a bit like Bill Murray and who was very smart.
The restaurant was bizarrely designed: The dining areas were on tiers, and the tiers were connected by waterslides. You literally had to get in the water and slide down to the level that your table was on. The waterslides were decorated with lush tropical flowers—enormous hibiscus and the like.
I liked the dog a lot. He reminded me of Milo although he looked more like a Rottweiler, very sleek black hair He was very jolly. He was romping around the restaurant unleashed, causing havoc and consternation. He had two smaller companions—one a little black dog that looked just like him in miniature, the other a kind of generic dawg.
This rather straight man was pushing a baby carriage up one of the slides. (I use “straight” here in the context that I originally learned the term, which had nothing to do with hetero-normality, but rather was the opposite of “hippie”—or in other words, me!)
The dog dashed past the baby carriage and in the process, scratched the baby’s cheek.
“I know, I know, I’m the responsible party,” I told the man. “And I’m so sorry that my dog scratched your baby’s cheek. That’s reprehensible.”
But privately, I was thinking, Jesus Christ, man! It’s only a scratch. Your precious brat will survive.
“You’re going to have to give me your name and insurance information,” the man said.
“Well, of course!” I said. I was playing for time. Hoping somehow that the dog would find his way out of the restaurant while I was nattering at the man.
“And the dog will probably have to be put down—“
Somehow I ended up talking about retirement accounts with the man who, it turned out, was a banker. He wanted me to transfer my retirement account to his bank, and I was thinking, Not on your fucking life, asswipe, but, of course, I was humoring him, playing for time, so the dog could escape.
I kept looking around and looking around.
Had the dog gotten out yet? I didn’t want them to capture the dog and put him down.
But finally the conversation with the man got to the point where I was going to have to tell him my identity.
And I knew I was going to have to make a break for it.
I was running when I woke up.
I had the vague impression throughout the dream that I was in the same universe that I’d been in several weeks ago when I dreamed about that house with the huge domed ceiling and that strange Italian coffee house crammed inside it.
A kind of weird mystical Berkeley.
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