I had a real freaky dream Friday night or early saturday morning I guess. Here's the situation I was in. The cats I was watching, were as vindictive as any friggin feline can be, much more so than the women I know, believe it or not. They watch from the corner of thier eyes, as I walk by the table, as I climb the stairs, as I flip through the channels, as I hop into bed, waiting for me to be outta sight and hopefully ear-shot so they can attempt to pull off some diabolical scheme. They are definately planning something really big, this I am sure of! They do not like me, this is another fact they do not bother hiding from me, which makes it all the more frightening, to know that they are planning something. They are not scared of me, no, not one bit. I may tower above thier suprisingly durable frames, with the power of goliath in my heels, but do they scamper? No, they are not intimidated at all. One of them had to be declawed, cause it was ripping
everybody to pieces.
Of course he's got a reason to be pissed, after being named "Bridget" and all! "That day, was a day which those bastards would regret for the rest of thier miserable lives!" I'm sure he thought, refering back to the day he was named, the day which set into motion an unstoppable evil. Unstoppable that is until the day the claws were removed. Hahahaha! I saw the effects a heavy Demerol shot to a 6 pound creature. Can you say emascalted? Can I spell it? To continue his life's work of reaking havock on the lives of all the human's he encounter's on his way to a shallow grave, he would need claws and swift paws to drive them. He could not have asked for a better accomplice.
He is the "alpha-cat", commanding the smaller, faster, completely clawed out cat to do his dirty work. Hillary, a street cat with a crack habit, the smaller cat is fearless and stealthy, will do anything to stay in the good graces of the alpha cat, including eating wax and beer corks, throwing them up in the path of unsuspecting socks at the whim of the clawless puppet-master. She walks the narrow top of the cupboards, casually hip checking the large bag of Lay's Dill Pickle sequentially to the counter top and floor below, each successive drop of the large light-reflective bag drawing a puzzled look of "how'd that happen?" And with a pounce she opens that faux-foil bag and within minutes the friggin chips are all over the floor, and they eat, like 2 of them, leaving the rest to be crumpled as they run back and forth to the shitter.
This is the basis for the semi-temporary neurosis which I struggled through Friday night. It was almost in nightmare porportions, and I don't believe I will be able to adequately convey the intensity of the situation. The crux of it all was the criminally evil cats, Bridget and Hillary, like Pinky and the Brain on acid, or heroine. So, here it is...The dream was about that little fucker hillary being the puppet of the dark and all powerful Bridget, (true) but the stakes were so much higher, it was world domination, not just control of the kitchen after dark or the little cranny behind the bed, and knowing what they were capable of in the waking world somehow made that dream damn near terrifying at the time. Can't even remember any specific details, but just an intense feeling of impending doom, which seems to be a theme in my dreams of late. To make matters worse, it happens just before I wake up, so I my mind screams in near terror, but the flesh is tired and my head only comes off the pillow enough to allow my eyes to open a slit, and I see the assasin cat, staring at me from behind the door jam! I watch him until sleep overtakes me again, but like a snooze alarm seconds later, my eyes open again and the little bastard is a foot closer to me than last time. This happened 3 or 4 times, until the cat was only 2 feet way from the bed and I realized it's time to get up or face the consequences for 40 more winks.
It was the strangest thing to wake up from a semi-bad dream only to find one of the lead characters from it staring you in the face, calculating the perfect timing to pounce and put all The Dark Clawless Commanders plans into action by scratching the eyes outta my head and as we all know, after that I would have no choice but to clutch at my face, screaming at the top of my lungs while spinning blindly and rapidly toward the open third floor bedroom window, crashing to my death in a crumpled lump partially clad and broken backwards over the lawn mower and the picnic table below. Anyway, it didn't happen and I'm glad for that I won't be back there for a while anyway, and maybe one of them will run under the tires of Tracey's car before I get back, if she ever let them out. Wishful thinking.
