Last night I dreamed I opened the front door and my old dog Brutus raced outside and down the street like a greased pig at the Iowa State Fair.
So here's the deal about Brutus. He was an indestructible Boston Terrier with a head that took up half of his body. He used to run and then fall forward because his head was so heavy. But then he'd bounce up on those spindly legs and start it all over again. Once TRQ and I watched him get run over by a truck on a Sunday afternoon. We screamed and clutched each other as screaming people often do. But then we realized that the truck had just passed over him. So, after rolling around like a tumbleweed a few times, Brutus jumped back up right there in the middle of the street and trotted toward us, totally unfazed.
That dog was like Rasputin. Yes. My dog was a monk dog. A Russian monk dog.
Anyway. I dreamed about Brutus last night. And in my dream he ran away. So I spent my entire dream life last night looking for him. Finally I went inside a church where ladies were making casseroles in the kitchen. I asked if they'd seen a dog and they said yes. He was in the Relief Society room (?!!!)
And there was, in fact, a Boston Terrier in the RS room. I picked him up and realized right away it was NOT Brutus. His head was too small. But I took him home anyway.
I know why I had this dream. Yesterday we had to put down our big girl newfie, Zora. Knowing this was inevitable, we had a wake for her all weekend. There were many tears, although I didn't cry much. I've done this enough to know that for me the tears and the missing part--those moments when you expect an animal you love to be lying on her back in the kitchen like she always did--come later.