föstudagur, janúar 24, 2014


It is a better world for that dogs dream.

They sleep away most of the day, draped over the upholstery or sprawled across the carpets. Furry bellows rise and fall, long lips slack, eyes quiet behind velvet lids. I am about my work. But a breath drawn too quick and I look over to see pads spread and clench, ears flick, hear tongue click against palette to draw up cool, phantom water to slake thirst won up running crazed loops around the field of nodding poppies, chamomile, valerian. Another sip and he's off again, racing, still in his chair.

I am glad they dream. They don't live long. Dreaming half the day, their lives are twice as long. 

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