1 What is your dream?

Call me Stig.

Stig the wanderer.

Stig the dreamer.

Stig the poet.

Stig the dog.

Yes, I am a dog. Does that surprise you? Or is it more surprising that my name is Stig? Maybe both things surprise you.

Stig is a special name. It comes from Denmark. It means “wanderer.” And according to Cambridge Learner’s Dictionary, a wanderer is “someone who often travels from place to place, especially without any clear aim or purpose.”

So Stig may not be a surprising name for a dog after all. Dogs love to wander. Well, many do, anyway. They often get into trouble that way. There have been many stories about those kinds of dogs. They get into trouble, and then they get out of trouble. However, there are probably more stories about the troubles of the people who own the dogs. In those stories, the dogs save their owners.

But if you don’t like dogs much — if you’re not a “dog person” — don’t worry. This isn’t going to be a “dog story.”

It’s the story of a poet. It’s the story of a dreamer. It’s the story of a wanderer. It’s my story. I’m the wanderer. I’m the dreamer. And I’m the poet.

Every day, my mind wanders.

Every night, my dreams wander.

Every poem, my words wander.

My dream is to live in Paris … to wander the city and be a poet.

Yes, I want to be that kind of poet. I mean the poet that you are thinking of right now. I mean the poet that you don’t always understand. Or do you?

Poetry is like another language. And I know that you, my friend, speak more than one language. You know how to use words in new ways. You know how words feel in your mouth. You know how different words can dance and fight and sing. Sometimes you even say things you didn’t mean. Often, you say more than you mean, and you don’t even know it. Maybe you are a poet, too.

My dream is to live in Paris … to wander the city and be a poet.

Yes, I mean that Paris. I mean the city that you are thinking of right now. I mean the city that you don’t always understand. Or do you?

Paris is like another world. And I know that you, my friend, know more than one world. You know what it is like to travel to a new place. You know what it is like to start a new life. You know how the ground feels different under your feet. You know how differently the people dance and fight and sing. Sometimes you even say things you didn’t mean. Often, you say more than you mean, and you don’t even know it. Maybe you are a poet, too.

Why Paris? Well, Paris is the city of dreams. It’s the city of lights. It’s the city of love.

Paris is also 5,123 miles away. And, therefore, it is not an easy dream. You can’t just wander down the road to see the famous Eiffel Tower.

Dreams are not easy. They are not easy for poets. They are especially not easy for wanderers.

Dreams are hard. Dreams are difficult. Dreams are sometimes almost impossible.

And yet … here I am.

Dreams are especially challenging when you are a dog.

Can you imagine it? Can you imagine your new friend Stig packing a small bag, wearing a black beret^[1] and hopping on an airplane?

Ha!

It is unlikely. Why? Do you know how much an airplane ticket costs? Do you? Airplane tickets cost a lot of money. They are big bucks! You need a lot of dough, bread, moolah, smackers, and simoleons. Or, as my crazy uncle says: It takes a lot of scratch to satisfy that itch!

Sure, I can scratch with the best of them. I am a dog, after all. However, I have no money. Why? The reason is this: No one wants to buy my book of poems. I’m flat broke, penniless, down on my luck. Most dogs beg for food. I, on the other hand, beg you to read my poetry.

But you will. I know it. I feel it in my bones. Someday, big people, little people, old people, young people — people of all kinds in all places will read my words.

It’s my dream. Dreams are not easy, but they are very important. What is your dream?