The dogs were being horribly mistreated, not through any malice but because they were RTT’s responsibility, and RTT was simply too scatter-brained to anticipate their needs. Most of the dogs were puppies—like bacteria, bonsai Newfoundlands apparently have a very short reproductive cycle—and one of the puppies was a half Newfie/half wolf mix whom various people throughout the dream kept telling me had “homosexual tendencies.”
Anyway, RTT and I had 45 minutes to check out. And the room was a mess, covered in tiny plops of shit. The bedclothes had been gnawed etc. I was hysterical wondering how I was gonna save face and cover for RTT at checkout time.
On top of all this, I had invited Booter for coffee and realized I had coffee beans but no grinder! So, I was knocking on doors of various other hotel guests, asking, Do you have a grinder? And having those hotel doors slammed in my face.
Into this mess came a veterinarian, apparently summoned by the hotel.
He was a tall, beautifully slender Brit just a few years younger than me with bare feet that looked somehow like shells. And the second we lay eyes upon each other, the vet and I felt this deep love for one another, so instead of caring for the bonsai Newfies, we spent the countdown till checkout talking about our mutual love of heroin and books!
We’d both done the heroin thing in our early 20s and decided—with some regret—that the cost/benefit analysis just didn’t support its use, so we’d sworn it off. There were still books, though! We were talking about how much we both loved Richard Powers when I woke up.
Dream was weird in two respects in that (a) I absolutely have dreamed about that hotel on the cliff before and (b) in real life, I don’t much like Richard Powers.
Speaking of books, I bought a copy of Tom’s Midnight Garden for Atticus, so I reread it last night for the umpteenth quadrillion time before I have to give it to him today.
Such a beautiful book. That ending:
Afterwards, Aunt Gwen tried to describe to her husband that second parting between them. "He ran up to her, and they hugged each other as if they had known each other for years and years, instead of having only met for the first time this morning. There was something else, too, Alan, although I know you’ll say it sounds even more absurd… Of course, Mrs. Bartholomew’s such a shrunken little old woman, she’s hardly bigger than Tom anyway: but, you know, he put his arm right around her and he hugged her goodbye as if she were a little girl."
Atticus likes to read, and his parents are going through a horrendous divorce. Somebody needs to spoil that boy. Presents for no particular reason are in order.
I do have a thing for precocious kids between the ages of 10 and 12.
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