In this lush living room -- which resembles the shag-carpeted, chrome-lined basement of Graceland -- there's a large aquarium, perhaps four feet tall and wide. It doesn't hold a fish; it holds a poodle. The pink, curly-haired dog is flipping around in the deep water, bouncing off decorative rocks, holding its breath underwater, doing aquatic acrobatics for our amusement. Its tail is wagging madly, perhaps giving it propulsion underwater.

I wonder how the poodle gets in and out of the aquarium, and I notice a poodle-sized hole in the glass on the lower right-hand side. Water should be pouring out, but it's not. I wonder how that's possible, and I stick my hand in the hole. Water grips tightly around my hand. I have to struggle to pull it out. It seems there's extreme water pressure in that corner, and that's what's keeping the water in. Even in my dream this doesn't make sense, but I accept it.

The living room also features an indoor pond, at least 15 feet square. One end is deep; the other end has large rocks covered in slippery seaweed. The pond has a wave-making mechanism, so waves are constantly cycling from the deep end to crash against the rocks.