I’m not eating anything weird before bed. I’m not eating anything right before bed. Yet I’m dreaming about dead cats again. Last time, it was of a giant sized Ataturk. These last couple of nights, I’ve been dreaming about Dusty, the cat we had for 13 years, the one who developed major heart problems and died a mere seconds before the vet was going to euthanize her.
There’s nothing special about the dreams; Dusty is just there. She’s not her last-year-sick-self; she’s the pre-we-got-a-dog thin self (she got fat after we got our first dog; overfed as a result of the dog eating her food—we were never sure if SHE ate all her food so quickly, or if the dog did, so we kept refeeding her…she figured that out, so gobbled it down to get more.) Unlike in my dream about Ataturk, she’s not eating alligators and she’s not the size of a golden retriever. She didn’t shred a couch to pieces. And Max wasn’t there for her to approve of.
I’ve been dreaming about normal days, staying at home and avoiding housework, and Dusty is there, sitting next to me on the couch (she was not a lap cat, not at all) or on the floor rubbing against my leg. And while I sit there with the cat next to me, I’m telling her I miss her. She rubs against my leg and looks as if she wants to say something, even though she was never especially vocal when she was alive.
Max generally wakes me up before I find out what Dusty wants. He pounces and talks nonstop, walking in circles across the pillow above my head, around my shoulders, across my stomach, back to the pillow. He walks this circuit nonstop until I give up and get up to feed him. He’s happy I’m up, and I’m left wondering what the whole point to the dream is.
There has to be a point to dreaming about dead cats.