I dreamt that on one weekend morning, I drove to a friend's doggie farm and easily killed the time playing with her puppies. One was rather pampered with me; it kept stretching itself in front of me the same way that Big Fat does.
After extracting myself from a complicated case at work the next day, I headed for a higher-ranking colleague's cubicle to air my grievance and shortly after I had sat down and related the story, I felt the cold butt of a Smith Weston on my neck, freezing just as my colleague froze, her eyes widening with horror. It was in that moment that we both know that the handgun-wielding fella was a disgruntled colleague of ours, who wanted an explanation for what the high-ranking colleague did.
In reality, I have a feeling that it signaled a sense of being caught in the middle with my hands shackled behind my back, in a dilemma that I want out and away from.