Decades ago, right before my old dog Jesse died, I dreamed that he bought a new briefcase. I didn't know where he worked (which is odd, since I keep quite the tight rein on my dogs in my conscious life), but I do remember he looked very professional. Fourteen years earlier, I had pulled him from a plywood- covered hole on a farm in Appling, Georgia, a frightened puppy the size of a shoe that rode home under the seat of my car.
Within a year, he'd grown to 110 pounds and could rest his head comfortably on the kitchen counter. He lived fully in those fast 14 years, complete with the addition of multiple doggy siblings, countless moves, an ever-changing influx of friends and mostly good health.