My boy, Pup, came to visit me in a dream, early this morning, for the first time since his death. He was young and healthy, in his middle years. The door was ajar and he had escaped, as he so loved to do back then, being impossible to catch. Until he got old, he never came when called, only when he was ready.
In the dream, I was fretting, in the doorway, as he was down among some people and other dogs, and I always worried about dogfights. He was a prickly sort and I never totally trusted him not to attack another dog, though it only happened a few times in his fourteen years. But in the dream, I was worrying about him, afraid he'd be hurt, as I did once he got old and frail. I was calling down to them, "He's an old dog", which clearly, in the dream, he wasn't.
That was all. But it was nice to see him young and strong and healthy, his black coat shining, busy and vital once again. The open door, my friend tells me, means Pup is inviting me out of my hermitage, and back into the world again.
I woke up happy to have seen him again. My boy.
