#25 PUPPY — A DREAM

4:48a.m.

For some good reason, in the dream that woke me, my job was to give away Scooter Sublime. That’s right. Give Scooter away. The man wanting to assume ownership sat a safe distance from me, and not nearly as smitten as I wished, as we discussed the dog. Scooter would have to learn not to jump up, he cautioned. There was a health reason concerning the man’s wife. Admittedly, “OFF!” has not be perfected by the exuberant boy but  . . .

”Let’s see some tricks,” said potential owner. Scooter must have been in the room, I realize now as I type. A friend was, sitting quietly off to my left. In one sentence at dream’s end, she warned me — twelve miles, twenty, separation is separation. Her look questioned whether I realized that.

I stood, walked from the room, and returned with a purple donut-shaped ‘treat,’ that was hard like a chew toy, but I was able to rub from it bits that resembled soft cheese it onto my finger.

“Scooter. Come,” I said. Time to show what the boy could do. He came.

“Sit.” Easy.

”Scooter, stay.” Which he did, waiting for me to release him. I don’t remember offering him a reward but in real life, I would have. I do remember wondering if the purple stuff was actually something he should be eating, but hey, Scooter finds fabric, plastic, plant life, toy squeakers, carpet, birdseed, deer-poop, and people food to his liking so . . . 

“Scooter “turn.” “Foot, please.” “Sit pretty.” “Under” “Jump up/jump down.” “Get it!” “Release!” “Leave it!” “Take it.” “Touch.” “Kiss.” “Stop!” “Look at me.” 

“Scooter, get Lamb-chop (well, the remains of Lamb-chop). Get Reindeer. Get purple ball. “Scooter, Crate.” “Scooter, bed. Stay.”

Scooter complied in a Jeb Bush low-energy sort of way.

Scooter’s understanding of words and commands number into the 20s, at least. I didn’t review them all in the dream. I only remember watching Scooter’s eyes as he and I ran through his performance of already captured capabilities. I remember his resistance. He didn’t want to perform.  I remember getting to the signal of “Back,” where after coming to me, Scooter obeys by walking backward, away from me, but now, not away from our eyes on each other. Trust.

“Back, Scooter.” But, he resisted. “Back.”

Dear goodness, why would anyone, under any circumstance or complexity that might be rectified, tell love to back away?

I woke. I write. I can’t wait for Scooter to join my day.