Saturday night I had a dream about cats again. This time, there were only 2 cats; one yellow and one calico. They were both overweight, cuddly and they had zero interest in running away from me. They were adorable with smooshed in faces and kept meowing and pawing at me for my attention. When I'd pick them up, they'd just go totally limp with the relief of cuddling. I also had the good sense to have a carrier for them this time, which they happily hopped into whenever asked.
I woke up yesterday not thinking much about this. I was in autumn happiness mode and focused on what was happening around me, getting dinner plans in order, begging for a tomato sauce recipe, sipping a pumpkin latte, eating candied pecans, deciding if I want seasonally scented candles or the usual spa-like smells, watching football and fretting about how I was going to slot one billion hours of Breaking Bad in to catch up in time for the series finale. You know, important stuff.
Last night, when I woke up to a call at an inhumane hour, I gave little attention to the chat as I was only half conscious. Upon hanging up I realized, out loud, "The cats don't represent kids! They're adults!" and then fell back asleep. A peaceful, dreamless, cuddly sleep.
When I remembered my breakthrough this morning, I analyzed it for a hot minute while shaking my head and smiling. There is one prominent fact here: whether cute and cuddly or manic and escape-driven, even when they're as sweet and happy as one can possibly be, cats are still cats. They are still barf machines who shed on your favorite slacks...... and shit in a box.
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