This is my dream body. The one I use to walk around in – in my dreams. In this dream I'm in a hospital bed. And it's like a scene from a movie you've seen a million times. The doctor is holding a small pink bundle. And he leans over the bed. And he hands me the bundle. "It's a girl" he says. "Isn't she beautiful, look!" And wrapped in the bundle, I see the little face of my dog. A small rat terrier, named Lolabelle. And no-one says anything like "Y'know, this is not a human baby... You just gave birth to a dog." But I'm so happy. I put my head to her forehead, and look into her eyes. And it's almost a perfect moment – except that the joy is mixed with quite a lot of guilt. Because, the truth was, I had arranged this whole thing. I had arranged to have Lolabelle sewn into my stomach. So that I could then give birth to her. And this had been really hard to do. Lolabelle wasn't a puppy. She was a full grown dog. And she had really struggled. And she kept barking and trying to get out, and the surgeons kept trying to push her back in and sew things up – and it was really a mess and I felt really bad about it. But it was just the way, y'know, things had to be

Anyway, I kissed her on the head. And I said "hello little bonehead, I'll love you forever."