So you know how I call Drisk "My Goat"? Well, apparently, I may have taken that nickname a little too far...
Last night I dreamt that Drisk had been kidnapped by a goat farmer in the Back Bay (a ritzy neighborhood in Boston). One of the boys (was it Reginald?) and I planned an elaborate escape plan that involved stealing gasoline from antique cars and hiding in narrow brick alleyways. While the rest of our kids played in one of Haitian quarries where all the white stone for construction is extracted, Reginald (?) and I rescued Drisk from his fate. We hurried back to the other kids, who were now living in a building that looked remarkably like the gym in Arras, France where I lived for a year in high school. They were all very happy that we have saved Drisk from becoming dinner and we celebrated by eating oatmeal.
Sorry, Drisk.
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