Missing Buddy

    There's a little dog up the street who's my emergency backup best friend. He's very, very friendly, or perhaps very, very aggressive in a way that I choose to interpret as friendliness. He lives in a house on a fenced lot, so I don't have to find out the hard way which it is. He looks sort of like a Jack Russell terrier and sort of like a beagle. He might be a mix, of course. His name is Buddy.
    His owner is not too well off. He, too, is friendly or aggressive in a way that I choose to interpret as friendliness. He has a very serious set of warts to the south and east (well, west from his point of view) of his mouth which might explain the standoffishness. He complains about the music blaring from neighborhood cars, particularly the repeated use of the f-word. It's fairly ironic to hear somebody complaining about a song that goes, "F--- all day/ F--- all night" by SAYing "F--- all day/ F--- all night" without the hyphens. (I'm not being squeamish; just don't want the Google hits that spelling it out would invite.)
    The owner had a lot of stuff out on his porch, like a refrigerator for example. All that is gone. Maybe he's gone out of town for a visit and just brought everything inside. If he died or moved, one would expect that there would be a For Sale or a For Rent sign in the yard, and there isn't. So hopefully they'll be back soon. But I miss Buddy and wish him well.
    Dreams of course continue to be odd. I was with my friend Evans, who in real life has been dead for five years, at an art exhibit that was either the student art show at the State Fair or a new (imaginary) museum. The paintings were all hanging 20 feet up the walls, too high to see, and the only other thing I remember were poorly rendered representations of sides of meat. We got separated and I had no way home. Of course, in real life the State Fairgrounds are about three blocks from my house. So maybe a reasonable interpretation would be that you're never as lost as you think you are. I can go for it.