Two little kids, a boy and a girl, just knocked on my door, and the boy asked me if they could walk my dog. The little girl already had a dog with her, one of those tiny breeds with bulgy eyes; it weighed maybe eight pounds at the most (the dog, I mean, not the bulgy eyes). My dog is a Newfoundland who in his prime weighed about 110, although he's nearly twelve years old now and down to an old-man weight of probably 85, but like many mellow big dogs he's easily intimidated by tiny dogs, who turn ferocious when they see him lumber their way.
So I had to explain that my dog is really old and stays in the yard when he goes out, and the boy said that he and the girl were planning a dog show, and I wished them luck. They're still wandering around with the tiny dog. I love living here.
For some reason, that exchange suddenly reminded me of the story idea I'd been turning over in my head last night. I fell asleep thinking about it and forgot all about it by morning, but I'm glad to have it back. It's a fun idea. It has possibilities for an unusual short story. It has nothing at all to do with dogs or kids or anything like that, but--pop, there it was, back in my brain.
So thanks, little kids. I wish I had a younger dog to loan you for your dog show.