Nina was a tidy Dalmatian. Spots were evenly distributed, two red balls were always in their place, a bowl that shone like a mirror and three bones hidden in the garden, under the apricot tree. Everything was in its place. Except one thing.
The carpet in the hall. The one with crooked stripes and a little curled at the edges. It used to stay still like a good carpet. But for a few days... it was moving.
One morning Nina found him in the hallway, curled up like a sleeping snake. The next day, under the table. And once even in the garden, near Skye's kennel.
“Are you the one moving it?” he asked Skye.
Skye yawned and replied, “I only move things that smell like cookies.”
Nina decided to investigate. That night she pretended to be asleep and left the door ajar. Midnight. Silence. Then… sgrishh sgrishh sgrishh . The carpet moved. Slowly, toward the exit.
Nina followed on tiptoe. The rug passed through the bushes, down the sidewalk, around the corner… and stopped under the streetlight. There were other rugs there. Colorful, long, checked or with drawings of kittens. They were practicing. Yes, that's right.
A yellow rug was stretching. A green one was doing somersaults. And his—his crumpled, striped rug—was learning to fly.
Nina sat in silence, watching. Her carpet, seeing her, stopped in mid-air, as if to say: "Sorry, but I dream big."
Nina smiled. She went home alone, leaving the door open.
The next morning, the carpet was there again. A little tired, but happy. And Nina, from that day on, never moved it again.
Because certain dreams — even if they have the wrong shape — should never be straightened out. 