Black Dog

I’m walking through a small town. It’s summer. Massive camper vans pass, on their way to Glastonbury festival. Everyone I know is going. I’m left alone, walking a black dog. 
We pass a guy walking lots of dogs, some nervous, some friendly, and one not a dog at all, but a young mountain lion. Friendly, it vies for my attention with a brown staffy. Both are cheeky, and I like them. I point out how big the big cat will get. The guy says its ill. It won’t live to adulthood. I notice marks on its neck from operations. I’m sad my black ferret isn’t here, he’d love them. We walk on. Into a park, to an old house, now a museum, we wander in and get lost, I’m not sure my black dog is allowed in here. I find a way out. I ask the black dog if she wants to play outside. She gets excited. She can smell the camper-wood-nail of her owners VW camper van. 
She’s not my black dog, but belongs to Joan. I hear her name repeated, and see her old face through distorted glass. The vision passes. We meet Joan at the van. She takes the black dog away with her. I shout as she goes up the busy High Street, asking if I should wait, but when she shouts back, I can’t hear her. 
I return to the park to wait a while, wondering if and when the black dog will return. 


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