A dream:
I'm in my apartment and the year is 1977 though that hasnt changed anything save that I am wearing a paisley print silk shirt. I am rearranging my closet, pushing my dresser back into the wall and opening up much more space. I am relieved that I am done with the task and that it has put my room back in order. But as I wander around I start to notice horrible creatures have invaded the house: inch wide centipedes, spiders with death's heads on their backs the size of my fist, roaches... hundreds of roaches.
I get a call from my landlady telling me that there has been a breach in the apartment complex. She shows up at my door, suspecting my unit to be the one compromised. Looking into my closet she sees what I notice for the first time: a small strip, no taller than the moulding on the floor, is missing from the side of my closet. The insects are pouring out from that aperture. Beyond it I can see an alleyway... filthy with dappled sunlight filtering down from an old greenhouse style skylight. For some reason it feels like the worst place imaginable.
I run to free my roommate. Its impossible to wake her even as centipedes are crawling in and out of her mouth and nostrils. I run back to my room where my landlady, an elderly woman now dressed in plumber gear, complete with utility belt, is working hard to board up the breach.
Gargamel, my beloved pug, runs into the room and jumps into my arms. I am cradling him against my chest like a child. He speaks to me, whispering into my ear, with a voice not unlike Linda Hunt's. "I'm scared." he says.
"Of what?" I ask.
"Death." It is perfectly horrible to me that a dog should contemplate its own mortality. I am chilled by I try to calm myself.
"Why are you scared of death?" I ask. Gargamel is ancient by dog standards.
"It's the 70's. Every dog I know has died in their seventies." He leans closer conspiratorially, "It wasn't just Boston. It was my mother as well."
I want to explain to him that just because its the 1970s doesn't mean he is in his 70s. But this is coupled with the wretched awareness that even so, by dog reckoning, Gargamel is over 100. I settle on a white lie, "You're not 70, you're 50." That seems to pacify him.
I leave Martha to her work and stand outside my apartment, insects still flooding out the door, cradling the dog in my arms and suddenly very very sad.
