I am greeting lots of pups; there are two at either hand before me and just behind them is Scoob, himself a rambunctious little pup now. He waits patiently. He knows me and him's tight. I'm comfortable with him there, in a semi-stadium for canines.

I'm leaving now to go and see someone. There is a range of barracks, or dorms, and I must find someone. Maybe it's my brother Joey. I realize I'm in the wrong dorm. We must move like in Hong Kong, with too many per square foot, shuffling, ignoring personal space.

Now I sit at a lunch counter. There is a smiling russet blonde, slightly older lady who is demonstrating the creation of a sandwich. She does this like it's she's working the cosmetic counter at a department store. Smiling and giving advice. It's my sandwich, but, I realize, I have nothing to pay for it.

I eke away. I must go and find Joey. I realize now, it's the apartment high and on the far side, but it's another building entirely. I'm not worried yet.

This is a searching, slogging through anonymous crowds, my pup taken care of, lost dream. Yesterday I found out in real time my column I'd been writing for the hometown online news isn't wanted no more.