What does this big dog dream of ?

	I'd especially like to thank Emma de Leyne for this wonderful text.
	Dream, big white dog stained with black ink.

What's this big dog dreaming about? What is this big white dog, splashed with ink and sunlight, dreaming about? There he is, stretched out to his full length, not forgetting his tail at the very end... He's asleep, his muzzle resting in the middle of his two straight front legs. His eyes are closed. The wide, rounded triangle of his ears hangs loosely on either side of his skull. He's asleep; he's dreaming...

He dreams he's running in the park... Children laugh; balloons bounce; trees fill with noisy life, greening leaves, shadows and sunlight; flowerbeds blush; more and more birds come to drink from the round pond, where brown carp and red ides no longer play hide-and-seek in the dead leaves. Playing, running, there are so many reasons to run and be everywhere at the same time. Around the swings, laughter becomes rarer. The long driveway empties of roller skates, baby carriages, mothers and nannies... Night slowly settles in. Down there, at the end of the alley, the heavy green and gold gates have closed... Soft sighs still filter from the Jardin Anglais.

Number 83 MW 7415 H, found dog. He sleeps; he dreams. What else is there to do here? At first, he thought we'd put the sky, the trees and the birds in prison. They were all behind bars; and the sun, the moon, the stars... and the cobblestones of the driveway, and the feet on the driveway. But when he wanted to leave this prison vision, when he took five steps, when he turned, turned, smelled, smelled, listened, he understood that there was only one prisoner, and that prisoner was him... So he drank, he ate, every day, all the same, he drank, he ate. Then he went to bed, all round at night, all long during the day, and began to dream.

He dreamed to forget. Forget that they'd forgotten him one May day in the park. Forget his fear, the man in blue with his kepi, the noise, the van, the voices... Forget the ear-deadening pain, the shoulder-stinging pain, the itchy collar, the frayed rope, the lock, the peephole, the cold tile floor, so cold, so cold... Forget that he mustn't forget his love of life, because everything here is whispered, whispered or shouted. Everything despairs. Everything disappears. Everything dies. Especially the big white dogs splattered with ink...

He dreams; a shiver springs up in the sleeping moustache; he dreams, he's hungry, he's cold, he's alone, he's... Yes, he's afraid... Where are they? ... What was their name again? ... Where are they? He's dreaming and his flanks are beating gently to the rhythm of the impatient quest of his amble gallop... Nose down, so many smells! Nose up, so many stars! Search my dog, search...

You won't find anything, no one's there, they're gone, gone, gone; gone without you... Yesterday beloved dog, and now...

He sleeps, he dreams. Once upon a time, there was a crazy young dog, all splattered with ink. This dog was waiting, on a beautiful day of his last summer, no, not the last, to live, to live, on a beautiful summer day; he was sitting, wisely, a well-behaved young dog, a pedigree dog all the same. Look at me: I'm a crazy young dog who knows how to have manners, a nice young dog, a bit of a braque, a bit of a prankster. Hello; I can smile, jump, play, guard; I can be handsome and brave... look at me; look at me, please. Ah! those two; really? Are you stopping in front of ME? Are you looking at ME? It's me, I'm all alone in loving myself. It's tiresome, I want to love; I want to be loved... But no, they're gone; Sigh. Too bad, too bad. The older one was very pretty, with her blond hair and slim waist. Too bad. Sigh. But no, here they come again. But yes, the wire mesh door opens; but yes, the big white dog splattered with ink, lost dog, found dog, the big dog can come out, the big dog has found life, life, his treasure, the only thing he owns. Thank you, life, thank you for the treasure, treasure, treasure... The big dog is dreaming; he's sleeping; a sigh has made his lip move.

The big dog is lying down. He sleeps; he dreams. He dreams of a wrought-iron gate, painted white like the old gates. He dreams of a fleshy lawn where you can roll around, of a big French-style house, a wide stoop, avenues of honor, lime and chestnut trees, a tall cedar in cool shade. He dreams of curly friends, companions to play with. They'd all be... black and white, like him, why not, black and white; black or white. He dreams and the dream is populated; he puts in horses, goats and sheep, chickens and ducks, makis and gerbils, peacocks and emus... He'll be content with a small place in the stable, where he'll make his nest in the straw and hay. In summer, swallows raise their young in their pot-bellied family nests. Winter will lull his evenings with the song of tireless crickets...

He sleeps. He dreams... He dreams he's sleeping in a room full of sunshine, in a warm room. There's his sofa, a little XVIII thing, pearl gray, covered with a fluffy, fluffy, luxurious, light, caressing wool blanket... mohair in a word; but mohair is too short for so much fluff, fluff, luxury, lightness, caresses. The Big Dog's dream needs to be prolonged, lengthened, to take on the allure of a comfortable eternity, of eternal comfort, of a dream that has all the time in the world, of a dream where the possible becomes probable, and the probable reality... where reality replaces the dream.

The big dog sleeps in the sun. A sigh has lifted his sides, and the black spots on his flanks. He dreams, caressed by the burning rays of the great summer sun, or by the softness of a pearl-gray blanket. He knows that before it was his nest, the blanket was over the sheep and goats... And he, a crew dog, dreams of being a herding dog... He runs, he runs, in front, behind, to the right, to the left, around; he comes and goes, passes, passes again, stops with his tongue hanging out, frightened sheep, pretty blonde mistress with a slim breathless waist, little butterfly fluttering, peacock of the day, cabbage white, blue butterflies, moving ocelli, flowers gone, young mad dog, big pointer dog, pedigree dog, dog with manners, dog you love, dog who plays, who barks, who works, who guards...

He dreams; his tail beats gently, imperceptibly; to the rhythm of his heart? What a beautiful day... He has worked well; he has guarded well. It's simple: since he's been here, the bandits have disappeared. That's why he can sleep so soundly in the sun and dream so intensely...

Dream, big white dog stained with black ink. Dream of your life as a dog, a little brave, a little crazy, a dream for those who weren't lucky enough, like you, on a beautiful summer afternoon, behind the bars of the shelter where death is all too present, to have the doors of life opened by two ladies, one who looked like a lady, the other so pretty with her blond hair and slim waist, and whom you followed when they called you: Grisby!