A lute and a lost dog

I dreamed I was wandering around the outskirts of London, waiting for my wife. It was a cozy street full of shops. Inside one, perhaps a pub (?), a choir was singing, all female voices. I stopped to listen for a minute, then continued walking. In the next, there was a rotund East Asian fellow with a deep tan, very long, straight hair, and an American accent. He told me there were lute lessons ("Not a flute," he corrected me ahead of time) in about an hour when his lute teacher returned from lunch, if I wanted to hang around. I smiled agreeably and kept walking.

Then I was driving around industrial outskirts, trying to figure out which side of the road to drive on. I took a bit of a turn that was about to spit me out onto a major highway. Small cars, green and blue and white, whipped by, all seemingly piloted by drivers with shaved heads. On the side of the road there was a small dog, brown with long, curly hair, trying to drag some kind of fraying sheet or blanket out from under what seemed to be a sleeping hobo. I leaped on the dog, immediately sensing it was lost and would run out into traffic, and cradled it along with the ragged blanket. A car pulled up behind me; a man got out, flustered, saying he was the owner and chirping in great concern. I gave him the dog and we both proceeded on our way.

*

I dreamed I lived somewhere down in Woodbridge, and would commute by foot to Hoboken—a sizeable distance—to take the PATH into Manhattan. I ran alongside traffic on the GSP, my feet pounding into the pavement. A lady ran alongside me—my friend's wife, whom I hadn't seen in years. She was all dressed up for work, as well, wearing ostentatious sunglasses that looked almost like flowers. We ran together, and she said she knew of a back way through Linden and Rahway. The streets got ugly and cracked, and still we ran on as the sun began to rise.