This morning — because I didn’t want to wake up when the dogs did — Bear instinctively destroyed a former bathroom rug that had been doing late-life duty as a mud collector.
“Instinct tells me that if I finally shred this, she will get up and feed us.” That had to have been the message she was getting from her canine language center, “Tear up rug = Let me out. I have to pee.”
“I don’t see the logic,” Dusty must have answered (telepathically). “She can’t even see you and how is tearing up a rug going to open the back door?”
“Whatever, Bear. She’ll get up. She always does. I’ll just do a body slam against her bedroom door to be sure,” said Mindy, less telepathically.
“Maybe we could wrestle. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get my squeaky ball,” Bear threw herself down on the floor.
Meanwhile, I was dreaming that I was on an amazing long hike along the eastern side of a volcanic cone that looked like Mt. Shasta. The dogs were with me, but after the long — I mean 100 miles or so — trek, and I was home again, only Mindy had returned with me. So there I was in my dream, completing some kind of art project and once in a while yelling out the window, “Dusty! Bear!”
When Dusty appeared, he acted like he’d done something wrong. In my dream I said, not telepathically, “You’re a good boy, Dusty. I missed you! Where’s Bear?”
Some woman — no one I know — was trying to get me to go for lunch but I said, “I dunno. If Dusty is here, Bear can’t be far behind.” But I wasn’t sure of that.
Out in the real world (the living room) Mindy rearranged herself forcefully against my door; Bear woofed instinctively at the prey (the rug) she had reduced to maroon filaments attached to bits of rubber; Dusty waited faithfully knowing that soon I would get up, I would let them out, I would make my coffee, I would feed them breakfast.