Dream of: 18 December 1996 "A Moment's Negligence"
My pet Dalmatians Picasso, Chaucer and I were walking through the corridors of a prison which we were visiting. We weren't prisoners, but I was conducting some kind of business there, such as a reporter might do. We walked down long corridors as I checked out the prison. There didn't seem to be any cells, only blank walls on each side of the corridor.
As we walked, I noticed a large hulking prisoner (about 40 years old) following us. He was singing a little ditty, as if he might be intoxicated on alcohol, and I began to worry that he might bother me or the dogs. I sped up, hoping to get away from the prisoner, and in the process I entered a labyrinthine corridor and became separated from the dogs. Suddenly I now saw the prisoner walking up ahead of me, and he was carrying Picasso in his arms. Picasso looked as if he were only about 18 inches long – about half his normal size. At first I thought the prisoner only wanted to pet Picasso. But when the prisoner turned a corned out of my sight, I became worried and hurried after him.
When I came around the corner, I found that the prisoner had set Picasso on the ground, and with horror I saw that Picasso had blood on him. Near Picasso was sitting a glass with a hypodermic needle in it. With shock I realized the prisoner had given Picasso some kind of shot. I rushed to Picasso to pick him up. When I reached Picasso, I saw that he was staggering, as if he had been drugged. Finally he collapsed on the ground.
I scooped Picasso up in my arms and began running with him. I finally came out into an area with other people who apparently worked in the prison. They were all sitting at desks and working. One black-haired woman, dressed in a long dress, was sitting in the room. The woman saw me carrying Picasso and she said she had been worried about something like this happening, because she knew drugs were in the prison. She seemed concerned, and I thought she was going to try to help me.
The prisoner who had injured Picasso was also in the room. I screamed, "You've done something to my dog! You've done something to my dog!" The prisoner, obviously in some drunken drugged state, collapsed onto the floor in front of me.
Holding Picasso out in my arm, I could now more clearly see the wound on his side. There was a hole in Picasso's right rear flank about a quarter of an inch wide and about an inch deep. At the bottom of the hole I could see something white, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at one of Picasso's bones. Up to that point I had thought the prisoner had merely injected some drugs into Picasso to make him feel good. But now I began to see that Picasso had a serious problem, and that he might even die. I felt very bad and responsible; I had been negligent for just a moment, and the prisoner had used the moment to do this to Picasso.
I had two thoughts on my mind. First I was thinking of calling an ambulance, hoping it could take us to a veterinarian which might have an emergency room for animals. Second, I was thinking of going over to the prisoner, who was lying on the floor, and kicking him in the face as hard as I could. I was undecided whether I should do that, but I thought I might.
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