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his exploits, considered him a hero for catching the mad scientist from Ukraine who had tried to build a nuclear weapon at Sandia Labs. And Sonny had started the “do dogs dream” controversy, and like all good baby-boomer professionals they thrived on controversy.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Baca,” said the blonde. She was a big-shot attorney in the biggest law firm downtown. “Is this the famous dreaming dog?”
    â€œThat’s her,” Sonny replied.
    â€œHowcuuuutydoggie, cutiecutiecutie. Here dogggieee.” She threw Chica a piece of leftover tortilla from her plate. Chica looked disdainfully at the woman. I don’t take scraps from the likes of you, she snapped.
    â€œShe already ate, thanks.” Sonny moved on to the mayor’s table.
    Sonny knew Fox secretly supported Frank Dominic, the City Future’s big tycoon who had set up a corporation to buy water rights in the state. Dominic’s goal was to privatize the water rights of the entire Rio Grande Valley. The new czars weren’t into oil, they were water despots. This was the same man who had proposed the city siphon off Rio Grande water, not for drinking, but to create a Venice in the city. He had a plan to build canals from Downtown to Old Town, a new image for the City Future, a casino on every corner.
    â€œHello, Fox,” Sonny greeted the mayor.
    â€œSit down,” Fox answered, scowling. He didn’t like to be called Fox. He hadn’t shaved in days. A random pattern of red chile spots adorned his tie.
    â€œHow’s tricks?”
    â€œI don’t do tricks!” Fox replied.
    Sonny sat and Marta delivered a cup of coffee and a steaming plate of huevos rancheros, the old-fashioned kind with blue corn flour tortillas, Rita’s brand of beans flavored with chicos and her famous Nuevomexicano red chile con carne. Plenty of crisp hash browns on the side. Carbohydrates for the long day ahead.
    Chica jumped up beside Sonny.
    â€œThis the dreaming dog?” Fox snarled as Sonny speared the two eggs so the yellow mixed into the beans and chile.
    â€œYeah. Chica Chicana. Wonder Dog. She can fly.”
    â€œBullshit,” Fox scoffed.
    â€œYou asked,” Sonny shrugged, then smiled as he dug into the food, satisfying the enormous hunger he felt. He figured he had gained a few pounds since Christmas. No sex, so he was eating a lot. Making vicarious love to Rita through her comida. In the morning she was a spicy plate of huevos rancheros, enchiladas with refried beans at lunch. Hot tortillas at every meal.
    He glanced at the cash register where she was ringing out the yuppie blonde. She smiled. Sonny returned the smile. Someday soon she would be ready. Like the Canadian geese and sandhill cranes flying north in February, love had to return to the North Valley, it just had to.
    â€œâ€¦ you have to tell me,” the mayor was going on, “what the hell you mean dogs dream? You can’t know. You can’t get into the dog’s head.”
    â€œShe gets into mine,” Sonny answered.
    â€œSome of the city workers are betting their paychecks. Does she or doesn’t she dream? Why don’t we get a psychiatrist to check her out?”
    Sonny frowned, looked at Chica then at Fox. A bureaucrat could run a city, but not dream. Fox was smart but he didn’t know the invisible world of dreams. Fox had never been master of his own dream. Fox was no shaman.
    â€œDo you dream, Chica?”
    Chica barked and wagged her tail furiously.
    â€œSee?” Sonny burped, sipping Rita’s rich coffee blend, better than Starbucks, and wiping up the carne adovada on his plate with a piece of tortilla.
    â€œThat’s no answer! Let’s test the dog.”
    â€œNot on your life!” Sonny petted Chica. The last thing he would do is put Chica through any dream exam. Her dreams were hers. “What’s happening in Jemez?” he asked to change the subject.
    Fox shrugged.