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Show DAD-66 whatever it is to sink back down again. Then I remember. "Cat!" I sit up quickly. I've never left her for an entire night. Thinking of her I suddenly miss my mother, as I do sometimes unexpectedly, usually in the kitchen or just before I fall asleep. I see her wrapped in a knitted afghan, smiling, writing on blue paper. "Cat?" he says. I tell him about her. "I don't like cats," he says, staring straight ahead, as if defying me to mind. "But why?" I say, for I do mind. "Everyone likes Cat!" "Don't know them, I guess." He turns to me and grins. "Everyone?" "Well, friends, you know, girlfriends." Why am I doing this? Where is my Peter who knows perfectly well who "everyone" is, and is delighted? I ought to call him tonight, explain. I don't think George believes me. Even so, he pulls me down to him and says, "Sleep now." It's warm here, and I can't seem to make myself leave. I awaken screaming. George is shaking me, which makes me scream more because it's part of the dream at first. Then, as if he's remembered to be gentle, he hugs me and croons, "What is it, bad dream?" he switches on a light by the bed. I start to tell him, then stop, for he will surely see things it could mean. It's about a cat, a black cat that in the dream I've kept locked in a small cage and never fed. It is spitting, screeching, a furious creature tortured by starvation. I am raw and pulling inside with pity, regret, but now it is too late, too dangerous to come near enough the door to slip the food inside. I scream, realizing this. Someone is pulling on me, threatening grave harm, pulling me away from the cat, the dream, awake. |