This dream moves at an unexpected speed. Usually my dreams are slow and reflective, but this one looks like it’s been filmed on a different camera and then it becomes clear that I am, indeed, being filmed. The film follows a morning in the life of two anthropomorphic animals, me and my companion. I’m both in front of the camera and behind it, and I can feel each part of my body simultaneously in both of those places. It is unclear in the dream to what extent the creatures are animals and to what extent humans; whether their evolutionary process has terminated or is still currently unfolding; whether we are shooting a nature documentary or a social commentary. This poses some issues. For instance, the camera kicks in as we are still sleeping in a pile. We are wearing no clothes and there is no bedding, but our bodies are covered with fur, some kind of down. In the dream I am considering with some difficulty whether the way we are sleeping means we are sleeping naked, whether I am infringing on any rights by filming this moment. I assess nudity in terms of the percentage of a body’s surface that is uncovered by clothes or other garments – skin on show – and so it takes a while before it occurs to me that something that stems from the body is not clothing. I begin to find the intimacy of the scene unsettling. I should not be here, I think, yet I am. The camera fast-forwards as our conjoined bodies twitch in their sleep in the early hours of the morning. When the alarm goes off my companion pinches at the old-fashioned alarm clock blindly, with its finger and thumb, finally managing to depress the button with its left paw. We scatter to the kitchen, busy, fully proficient. I squat on my four legs to go through the motions of making breakfast. I poach us two perfect eggs. We plate up and eat, our muzzles shoved together.