The other night I dreamed I was feeding pickle spears to a baby buffalo. They were the kind of pickles that often accompany a sandwich and chips at a restaurant. It was the kind of buffalo that one might encounter on a South Dakota prairie, shortly before its mother charged and trampled one for messing with her young one.
I'm not even a huge fan of pickle spears. I only like dill pickles, and sometimes a spear-shaped pickle is merely a sweet pickle masquerading as an edible one. I also prefer my dill pickles whole, so that I can bite a chunk off with a satisfying crunch. Pickle spears tend to be a little lacking in the crunch department.
Don't these poor beasties look like they could use a few good pickles?
The dream bison baby certainly seemed to enjoy the pickles. I was in a kitchen with him, and I had prepared a whole smorgasbord of items to tempt his palate. I was quite concerned that he would be hungry, since his stampeding mother seemed absent.
The dream baby buffalo also wasn't the lighter, tannish color of this photo. He was the dark brown that one usually associates with bison coloring. My subconscious brain must have forgotten the detail that baby buffalo have lighter fur. It just shows that you can't trust anything in dreams.
Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of pickles. Or smorgasbords. I would take a photo of the kind of pickles that I like if there were any in my fridge, but there are not. The last time I went grocery shopping and thought about pickles, the store did not have the good ones.
