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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that’s not the pervert you think we are.Honest, we’re not. It was truly a mistake; a fault of forgetfulness or hurry, if you will. Still, we’re expecting the police to show up at any second and haul us off.Here’s how it happened: So we’re at the high school, hanging out with the folks who do the real journalism work around here. We’re thinking, hey, even though it makes us uncomfortable as heck to hang around a bunch of kids (they’re somewhat boisterous and unpredictable, you know, and prone to laugh at old folks like us, possibly even taunt us about our bad hairdo or something), we’ll go and write a column about youthful exuberance, Homecoming and such. No harm there, right? You’d think. Well, we’re there for about 45 minutes, watching the gymnastics team (don’t those girls have fathers who complain about those outfits?), and we get up to move – away from the group of boys threatening to erupt with unbridled hormones.

That’s when we feel a strange draft near our waist. This can only mean two things: Either we left the house without wearing pants at all, or our zipper is down. We do a quick, nonchalant check by brushing our arm across our front and, sure enough, there’s a gaping hole where our modesty should be.Under normal circumstances, this should just be a lightly embarrassing moment. “Oh, ha-ha, you saw the petunia print on our boxer shorts, ha-ha, let’s all laugh and forget about this,” we’d say before running all the way home and hiding. That’s under normal circumstances. However, going around “commando” as we do, we found ourselves wishing we had some embarrassing print on our underwear for people to see; instead, we ran away, not waiting for anyone to laugh at anything else.It could have been worse, we guess. We’re not sure how – that’s just what we’re telling ourselves today. ***

OK, enough with the nonsense for the day. It’s time for some downright weirdness. Let’s play a little Analyze the Summit Up People’s Cryptic Dreams.The dream starts in the parking lot of an unassuming Wildernest condo complex. The dreamer is seated on the pavement with a dog, a golden retriever, that the dreamer is babysitting while mommy’s away.There is commotion and grumbling in the woods nearby, and by the time the dreamer realizes what’s coming right at them, it’s too late: It’s two more dogs, black labs, being chased by a black-colored bear. The dreamer grabs the dog and yells at it not to struggle and attempts to cover the dog with his body, but in vain. Both dreamer and dog are trampled by the other dogs and, worse, the bear. At first, the dreamer thinks both are unscathed; the dog isn’t even whimpering. But upon further inspection, the dreamer notices the dog is wet to the touch. The dreamer parts the dog’s fur to find gashes, claw marks and blood flowing.Oh, you think the weirdness stops there, do you? Let us continue: A stranger appears in the dream. For some reason, the dreamer doesn’t have a car, but the stranger does. The dreamer wraps the injured dog in blankets and sheets – the dreamer is crying now – and puts the dog in the car.

The stranger says he will take the dog to the vet. The dream flashes forward and the stranger has returned, but his car is being pulled into the parking lot by a tow truck. No, he didn’t make it to the vet, and the dog is still injured (although the bleeding seems to have stopped).And that’s where we woke up. If this was a flying dream, or one of those all-your-teeth-fall-out dreams, we’d have no trouble figuring it out. This one, however, has us wondering if we shouldn’t seek professional help (or at least the help of our readers).Please send your Freudian or Jungian analysis to, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just tell us to go back to sleep on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998, ext. 237.***It’s Thursday, wookies and princesses. We’re curled up with soup and a blanket, waiting for the evil bears of dreamland to come back and finish what they started …

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