heart like a wheel

Last night I lay awake between 2am and 3.30ish and listened to the barking dog. Bark, bark, bark, bark... bark-bark, bark. Random; irritating. Bloody thing. I lay and swore at it, and the futility of it's barking. Doesn't the damn dog realise that sometimes it's about me: not him and his incessant need for attention? I tossed and turned and got crosser and crosser and crosser with the dog until it seemed unlikely that I should sleep at all. When finally I persuaded myself to calm down and drift off I dreamt that I was holding the dog tight in my arms with my face in it's fur; and that I felt better than I have for several days. Even whilst I was asleep I thought this was ironic. I like that damn dog, I thought. I like it more than I have been admitting. Bugger.

I'm reading a book which has a whippet in it, which may account for the dream. It makes me want a whippet. I like the style of prose in the book but haven't yet managed to work out how it works, except that the author cares not for the speechmark. I plan to copy the style if I remember, so sorry about that grammarians.

Narrow Dog to Carcasonne. It's not edifying in any way. I like the illustrations. I like the fact that the author recounts the arguments that he has with his wife. I like the gentle humour, and most of all I like the dog.