I dreamed last night that I was at either a veterinarian or a pet store and, apparently for food, they gave me a leftover dead dog. It was small, curled up about the size of a doughnut, and very slender, like a cross between a whippet and a ferret. Long body, long snout. And it was fairly stiff. At home, I boiled it, or maybe microwaved it, and then held it in my hands, uncurled and limp and somewhat larger—maybe more than a foot long—and I looked at it and thought, I can’t harm this. I can’t make it into food. And as I held it and examined it, it slowly came to life. And then it was a healthy and happy little spindly black dog, quite sprightly, zipping around the house and enjoying our company.
I was happy for the dog, but I wondered (a) whether and how we were going to fit it into our household routine and (b) what kind of other mistakes this veterinarian/store was making.