I am not one of those people who think of writing as cathartic or therapeutic. However, my therapist disagrees. Write, she said. Write something every day, until it becomes a habit again, until it becomes a compulsion. Should therapists encourage compulsive behavior? Put a pin in that thought.
So Sandy, my partner, wakes up the other morning and tells me the dream she had. Who knows what makes us dream the things we dream? In this case, she said she heard me talking to the cat as she fell asleep. My conversations with Boo Boo are a bit one-sided, since she only listens to herself, and believes she is always right.
In the dream, we had two cats, identical, adorable, and completely enamored of each other to the exclusion of the rest of the world. They were scared of everything, and stayed close together, inseparable, wide-eyed, ready to run for cover at the least provocation.
Then there entered a dog, a big dog. For some unexplained reason, the cats fell in love, and competed to be this dog’s BFF.
This complete reversal of their shy natures caused us concern. Should we keep them away from the dog? Should we allow the cats to fight it out and establish a winner? Why did their behavior change from frightened and co-dependent to outright jealousy and competition?
We decided to go to a party. It was a lesbian party. Driving along, we still could not work out why the sudden change in temperament and personality f the cats. We were actually worried about it.
Then, as we got closer to the house where the party was to be, we got more and more anxious, both of us switching from worried about cat psychology to focus on our own introverted, stay-at-home, do not ever willingly attend social gatherings personalities. We drove slowly past the house, where couples were gathering, debarking, making their way inside like the red carpet at the Oscars. A few recognized Sandy and called out of her. (Sandy being a well-known artist and sculptor.) Sandy ducked down and begged me to keep driving. I had no choice, because the slow crawl of limos disgorging formally dressed lesbians kept us in line.
Sandy became aware, as it happens in dreams, that the theme or purpose of this party was actually a symposium about everyone’s pets suddenly exhibiting strange behaviors due to the introduction of an outside third party of some kind, just like our two cats.
Caught in a near panic attack, Sandy also sensed that I was to be on stage, presenting a humorous monologue about cats. She also realized that Ellen Degeneres and wife were supposed to attend, but couldn’t, so they sent a charming, breezy, wholesome, and entertaining video, the effect of which was calming, a gentle exhortation to accept our animals as they are. “Bye,” they said in unison. “Remember, love everybody regardless of orientation, and judge them by their pets’ neuroses,” except Ellen and Portia used the words “adorable eccentricities”, but we knew what they meant.
Which is much better than being judged for having dreams about cats, lesbians, and parties.
There, that’s about five hundred words of pure recitation, to the best of my memory, of someone else’s dream. That’s not weird. Maybe it is. I’ll talk about that at my next appointment with the irresolute therapist.