When you live long enough with a dog, and a smart one at that, your dreams are less panicked and more lyrical.
After Milan Corky, Connie and I went to Venice. By day, in our waking lives we floated in a gondola and heard caged birds call from windows. I heard a cuckoo singing from a building where Mozart once lived. Corky sat tall and looked regally in all directions.
By night, asleep in our hotel beside the grand canal we dreamt richly—all three of us.
Corky sighed and puffed and moved her feet. Connie said something in her sleep. I dreamt I was in the middle of a field at night, lights from a far town in the distance. I understood friendships were on the horizon. I felt light and strangely cultivated. Sometimes in sleep you realize you’re in a kindly dream. Walking by day along the canals of Venice with a strong dog had offered pleasing trajectories, and dreams replayed them. A good dream makes a home inside of you. There are people and animals who love you sincerely. In a lucky life you wake and find its true.
Planet of the Blind 