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"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaawm! Felony called me prince-ASS!!"
This morning I dreamed they came with a drug-sniffing dog and went through the car--somehow it was my long-lost '67 Mustang, not the mini-van--and our schoolbooks. Whenever the dog smelled drugs, he would sit up and clap his paws. Sometimes, I suppose because the smell was so strong, he would clap two or three times or more.
But I knew I was okay because all I had was prescription drugs. I haven't used street drugs in ages. The dog was smelling amphetamine salts, all right, but they were from a pharmacy. The labels on my bottles would save me. I felt almost smug about it. Then the officer pulled a faded blue envelope with a glassine window out of some forgotten crevice in the car. Inside was a sandwich bag containing a thimbleful of white powder in one corner.
This is what dreams are like when you are a guilt-ridden, forgetful person with a shady past. What can I do but habitually check for ancient burdens in forgotten crevices and beware of clapping dogs?