The dog’s sleeping on the sofa yelping intermittently, legs dancing like marionettes.
“Shut the fuck up!”
The dog looks up, softly offended, before his eyes begin to droop and close again by stages.
“He does the same exact thing every day. He eats, he sleeps, he chases tennis balls. What the fuck does he have to dream about?”
Dunn pauses for reply, receives none, continues.
“The most limited range of experience possible and a kernel of a brain to process it with and still he has the gall to dream!”
Dunn’s mother has gotten up and busies herself in the kitchen. Dunn gets up and turns off the television just as a cartoon fisherman is casting his net.
“Well you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve farted. It smells so bad that I’ve made myself feel unwelcome.”
Dunn lopes upstairs.
“Night Love” his mother calls, pulling the plug from the sink.