I dreamt that I had a monkey as a pet. It was a macaque of some kind, but it had a puff of blond hair on the top of its head that flew hither and thither all the time. For its likeness with the mayor of London, I called it Boris. I had to organize my house quite differently for my new friend. Much work was needed, but I forgot the details by the time I woke up. What I remember most clearly is taking Boris for long walks. The monkey was especially fond of a huge old tree some way away from Motovun. It was an oak, if I remember correctly. My friend would spend hours in its huge crown. “Boris,” I would call after a while, “it’s time to go home.” But there was no way of getting the monkey down from the tree. After a few calls, I would start walking away without my friend. When I would get far enough, Boris would climb down and run after me at full speed. Then it would jump onto my left shoulder and start screeching into my ear. The screeches showed both anger because I left all by myself, and exuberant joy of our reunion. “Boris,” I would pet the monkey as I walked, “next time listen to my calls.” And it would almost purr at my tenderness. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I realized that I was dreaming my beloved’s dream. She had been talking about a monkey as a pet for years. I fell asleep soon afterwards, but Boris remained close to me through the morning.