I'm wandering around the lobby of a well-preserved art-deco hotel. On the lobby's right side is a long chest-level shelf, presumably where business travelers pause to write notes, or where they rest their handbags while making cell-phone calls. A row of electrical outlets is directly above the shelf.
I notice a cell-phone charger is plugged into one of the outlets. However, the "charge" end isn't connected to a cell phone -- it's hooked up to a tiny puppy, no bigger than my hand. He's got brown and white splotches -- maybe he's a mix between a beagle and a bassett hound -- and his eyes are closed. Apparently some well-meaning person thought this tiny newborn would be warmed and stimulated by putting a cell-phone charger against his chest. In fact, when I pick up the the puppy he's quite warm and vibrating from all the electrical stimulation. I "disconnect" him from the cell-phone charger, which actually had just been pressed against his fur.
I take the puppy to the lobby receptionist, who is circa-1967 Dusty Springfield. "Awwww!" Dusty says. Somehow, we both suddenly know the puppy's name is Lemon, even though his fur's not yellow. Dusty deposits Lemon in a cardboard box on her desk and writes "ADOPT LEMON PUPPY" in Magic Marker on its side. A crowd gathers, and I feel relieved knowing that Lemon will soon go to a home with blankets and kibble.
