Halfway up a steep hill I stop to rest. The air is thin, probably somewhere in Asia. A big, old dog comes staggering down the hill. His coat is curly and white, just like a sheep. He is losing his fur and has bald patches here and there. His skin is a strange color. He has a face like a lion, and eyes exactly like Orson Welles'. He comes to within inches of me and keels over with a thud.
Dream 2: Charred Black Dog
Children are playing slingshot with acorns as bullets. (It's a dream, I don't what it means.) I dash down a small hill in a hurry and come out at a wide field in front of a house I once lived in. A dog lies scorched to death still leashed. Eek. That's it. Blunt dream stories.