Letters

Dear Lady in the Checkout Madness that is Costco,

Oh, bitch, PLEASE. I realize that you want out of here as much as I want out of here, but I'm in front of you, and if you think that inching your cart forward until it almost hits me is going to do anything, you're sadly mistaken. Unless that something you are looking for is me turning around and clawing your ugly face off. Because lady, I'm in that kind of mood.

I'm aware that this is the highlight of your week, when you dust out the ill-fitting gray sweats you've had since you were a fat teenager, roll off the couch with its 3 inches of cheeto dust, and drive slowly with your left blinker on all the way here to Costco. I'm pretty sure that you're finally of the age where you're all, "Fuck it, I'm an adult, and these young whipper snappers can suck it. I'm going to be rude and I'm going to act out all the aggression I have about not being as pretty as my sister, and be a complete and total bitch and they're all going to have to take it."

Well, honey, I'm not that young and I'm so so so totally not going to take it. You might be pushing that frizzy mop off your forehead and looking at my frizzy mop and thinking, "I can take her." And, oh, you'd be so wrong. My mop is frizzy because it is always like that, and yours is frizzy because it is an extension of your execrable life.

I guarantee you will never be a match for me,

Salome

Dear Lucy,

I have put up with a lot from you in your life. You're a miserable cat, but I've always loved you despite that. In the last few weeks you've become a totally unstable whackjob who is nothing but a nest of bitch and claws. If I have to hear your pissed off screech one more time, I'm going to snap. It seems that everything annoys you. If i walk past you, if I turn on music, when I grind coffee beans, if I shut the door to pee in peace.

I understand that you think your life sucks, but you have made mine suck in turn. When I carried you to the bed a couple nights ago and you freaked out and hissed at me, bit my head and scratched my face? THE END.

We have a new cat in the house, princess. And you are going to mellow the fuck out and let her live here. You let your brother disappear, and it broke your mom's heart. Do you hear me, Lucy? It broke my heart when your brother went away. You did not help me, not when I was sobbing and searching the backyard and begging you to come and smell him for me, and lead me to wherever he was. You have such a keen sense of smell that you probably know when a mouse farts in Kentucky, yet you did nothing. And I know you know what Finny smelled like, you've detested the scent since he came home in June of 2004.

This morning when you tripped me for the 3rd time, and this time tripped me so effectively that I hit the floor, after slamming against the wall in the hallway first, I had had enough. You hissed at my last nerve, Lucy. THAT is why I stomped toward you, screaming. You went under the bed, which was such a good idea, even though I've never hit you and I never will. If you make me fall and hurt myself again, I swear to God I'm making you into a hat.

Lucy, in the coming days you might notice something different about your water. It might taste slightly like natural flowers. Hopefully you will feel fairly mellow when you're done drinking it. I bought an all-natural item that is called GOOD CAT, supposed to calm down frantic or nasty cats. You are a nasty fucking cat, Lucy, and I hope you chill out.

I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more,

Mom

MENBOYSMEN

June 16, 1999

Wonderland
big becomes small
by a trifling sweet,
little no longer IS
when you quench your thirst.

I never meant to take your power
you should not give that
to me.

I don't know how to nurture you.
You've grown so long now
in such foreign soil.

There are different bugs here.
Some without conceivable remedy.

I rolled a newspaper up,
and didn't know whether to whack you in the nose
with it,
or leave it in the garden.

I can't be your Savior.
Not for all things
Not at all times.

I have myself to save
as well.

Love is the white rabbit....
Running far late
to come to get me.

I hold you now at arms length.
Examining, cautious-like.

For this is Wonderland.
And things need not be as they seem.

They may just seem.
They might just BE.

IT COULD COME DOWN TO THIS
You see what you need.
But you get what you've got.

Is it Just Me?

Or does anyone else think that Patchouli oil smells like moldy dirt?

While I'm At It

CLP - Remember this?
Set to video that rocks, oh how perfect!!



And let's just go back to that time that we knew so well:

Trent Reznor is, apparently, an asshole, so I can't embed THIS!

OMG So AWESOME

Found this today:



My favorite song by Tool, this song was my mantra in my 20's.
Much of what I responded to in this song holds true today.

When Life Hands You Lemons

Go apeshit.

Tear your hair out.

Let your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

Smoke 30 cigarettes and make your margaritas stronger that night, so that you're drooling 1/2 way through the first one instead of by the end of the second.

I believe that my life could best be described as part-life, part fucking lemon tree.
My whole existence is Lemons.

I'm a lemon.
My house is DEFINITELY a lemon.
My bitchy cat is a lemon.

Why the Pope married the Lemon Queen of Banshees is beyond me.
I'm pretty sure he knew what he was getting into, because I was the Absolutely Undefeated Champion of All That Makes a Terrible Girlfriend while we were dating, but still.
I do some wondering, sometimes.

I had a stressful day at work. I have been working hard and being productive, but I'm behind and I'm stressed and I'm pulled in a bunch of directions, and I'm not doing as well as I think I can in some areas, and my patience wore thin, looked like a sheet of glass for a second, and then snapped wildly earlier today and I lost it.

Lost every recipe for lemonade I've ever had.
Ready to quit, ready to walk out, ready to burn every bridge in the State of Washington.

And all I really want to know is....
When does life get just a little easier?
I don't even mean it needs to get cakewalk easy, but I'd like to be able to take a breath once in a while, and not finish something with the immediate thought that, "Aha! Now I can focus on this other thing!!"

You know?

By the way:

1 cup 1800 Reposado Tequila (100% de Agave)
1/3 cup Patron Citronage (or Cointreau if you're not a cheapskate)
1/3 cup Rose's (or equivalent) Sweetened Lime Juice
1/3 cup Sweet & Sour Mix

Pour in a small glass (trust me) packed full of ice (not kidding) and splash a teensy bit of Grand Marnier on top, and welcome to my evenings.

That is the new and improved and, as far as I'm concerned, PERFECT, Loma Linda's Margarita.

Where One Is Lost, One is Found

For several months now, we've been visited by a stray cat.

Only she's not that much of a stray, her name is Cleo and she is the cat of our neighbor, John Johnson. Only, John drank himself to death last summer. Our only glimpse of our oft-gossiped about next door neighbor was one night in late May, 2006. A decrepit old man shuffled out of the house next to us, cursing and shouting incoherently.

He had a live-in caretaker for the last year of his life, and a nastier, less smiling woman you have never met.

Cleo used to come over and fight with Finny. Or Finny would get in her yard and Cleo would fight with him there. They did not appear to like each other.

When Finny went missing, I spoke to the man who lives behind our neighbor, to ask if he'd seen him. He said, "Sure, he and that little black and white cat are always palling around, playing in my yard. I feed the little black and white one, because she looks so hungry!"

In my grief and desperation, I never told this guy that John Johnson had died a year before. I consoled myself with thinking that he was taking care of Cleo, and forgave myself for only going back there one time, trying to tell him that Cleo needed a new family, but he wasn't home and my busy life got the best of me.

We thought Cleo had found a home, we never saw her.
Then about two months ago, Cleo came calling. She was hungry, her collar was now gone, and we put bowls of food out for her to keep her fed.

The Pope fell in love. Everytime she came around, he would go out onto the porch and sit for an hour, petting and loving her. I made sure the bowl was full, but Lucy goes apeshit at the sight of Cleo, so I kept my heart in check.

I cannot love you, I would say to her on those off nights when the Pope wasn't there and she came by anyway. I cannot love you, Lucy won't let me, and anyway, I am keeping Finny's room in my heart just the way he left it, so that when he comes back it will be ready for him.

But it is getting colder. And Cleo started coming around every day, every night, not wanting food as much as she was wanting love. She was wanting affection. She was wanting to be a pet again, instead of the wary, feral life that was thrust upon her.

And it is getting colder out here.
So we put a Lost and Found Ad on Craigslist.
Nothing.
Then we put an ad in Pets.
Nothing.
Then the Pope rewrote the Pets ad to be creative and awesome like he can do, and a lady responded the first day.

She and her husband and their kids live in an apartment in Kent, WA (nearby-ish).
Her 4 year old had fallen in love with a cat that looked just like Cleo, but that cat was a stray and had disappeared. Probably adopted, she thought.

Probably.....not, I thought.

We vetted them as best we could and they came and took Cleo on Tuesday night.
It absolutely broke my heart to see this cat leave.
I mean, I can't care for her!
We're leaving!
Lucy's a bitch!
All those things, you know!

But I also know that I can heal a damaged, frightened cat.
I can make her whole again, I can make her a pet.
Those of you who know me, you know this is true.

The lady called the very next day, Cleo didn't do too well, she was hissing and scared, and with two kids in an apartment, she couldn't deal with that.

(Don't be harsh in your thoughts, she was a very nice, young woman, she meant well.)

But Cleo is a commitment. She has seen some hard things, she's had to fend for herself, she's been placed in the most unfair and worst possible scenario for a loving, little animal.

And here I'm hoping and praying that my Finny returns, and/or that God keeps him safe, and happy, and loved dearly through the whole of his life. And right here this little girl needs me, needs the Pope, and needs someone to reach out and say, Here.
You're welcome and safe, Here.

So, welcome, Cleo.
You're welcome and safe HERE.
We have room for you.
We have love for you.
We have the time and we have the heart and we have the home for you.


And somewhere, all my angels?
Please tell Finny that Mommy says Hi, Honey.
Mommy says, I miss you, Little Man.

Please tell Finny that his room is still here, in my heart, waiting for him.

I found more rooms, I have more heart.

Dashing off a Quick Note:

Dear Yielders Who Aren't Actually YIELDING:

Goddamnit. Listen, I can't believe I actually have to write this! DIDN'T YOU TAKE THE SAME GODDAMN TEST I DID? Here is what you do when you drive up or down something and there is a yield sign (facing you, you fucking idiot, not facing me, which would be a different letter altogether.)

1. LOOK, Motherfucker!
2. If you see a tiny, weathered escort driven by a wild-haired girl with a stubbornly set jaw, flooring the pedal until the entire car whines......then you should stop and patiently wait until I am nowhere near. You can almost bet on the fact that although I do know what brakes are, I rarely use them, sparing them for the situations I find myself in (see earlier letters) where I am FORCED to use them to avoid pain of sudden death.
3. Alternately, you can listen for the screaming of my engine and decide that you can beat me, in which case, I sincerely urge you to fucking beat me. And I dare you. I DARE YOU. This little escort has a heart like mine, which means she'll go 180 if I so ask of her. She may fall apart while doing it, but she loves me and will try her best.

WHAT YOU DO NOT DO, IN ANY HOLY UNIVERSE:

1. Slide right in front of me without looking or stopping your cellphone chat.
or
1. Tentatively pull out in front of me, and then SLAM on your brakes, like you're all sorry and shit, because by that time? Bitch, you're in front of me now, and if you don't floor it I'm going to be even MORE pissed. No apologies necessary. If you're going to drive like an asshole, then DRIVE LIKE AN ASSHOLE. Being a thug means never having to say you're sorry.
or
1. Be so completely fucking oblivious that you do all the above while chatting on the phone and I'm all freaking out and wild-haired angry behind you trying to wish you dead with my bare eyes and then go slow and act all like the world is nothing but this big fun place with really great sunsets.

....because I do not know that kind of world,

Salome

Concrete Blonde

But aren't they all?



I have, through the mastery that is iTunes, discovered yet again that the songs JOEY and TOMORROW, WENDY should be on everyone's top 10 list.

I've been playing them like I played them when I was a teenager, which is to say how I play everything that strikes one of my personal chords.

Overandoverandoverandoverandoverandover.

I sang these two songs my entire 25 minute drive into work this morning. By the time I got to my office I could barely speak. It felt great.

Yesterday when I got to my exit off the freeway, I looked up, because I saw hundreds of birds flying. There were HUNDREDS of black birds flying from a line of trees west towards the 5 freeway.

It reminded me of this one time in Ohio when I was so desperate, I was so lost, and I would drive home these lonely country roads, home to a house I wasn't comfortable in (my parents') driving home from a job I despised (entering medical claims for an insurance broker) and I saw these birds that would fly in circles and circles and circles over the cornfields. They were crows, so it was murderous.

And I wanted away so badly.
I wanted away so badly that I was crazy with it.

One time, after a particularly "not anything in particular" day, I saw the birds and had to pull over. I was about 5 minutes from my parents' house, but I couldn't go on.

I pulled over onto the dirt shoulder of a country road, next to a pig farm that stank, and I cried until my heart broke, put itself back together, broke again, and then healed.

About three months later, I packed up everything that I couldn't live without, it fit comfortably into a Ford Escort, and I drove West.

I have never lived there again.

Things You Can Count On

1. In a hotel, my husband will dry himself with the shower mat.

Honey, do you KNOW what that tiny, folded, thick towel by the bathtub is?

2. At a wedding, I will drink too much.

3. A dress that was tight in May, with unrestricted eating, will probably be uncomfortably and unflatteringly tight when you bust it out on the day of and at the place of a wedding ceremony in September.

These are three things you can count on.

Oh Britney....

Well by now you have all seen IT.
While better than you or I could possibly hope to do, she bombed. BOMBED.

And I have to comment. I HAVE TO!
While I actually LIKE the song, and for that I'm twisting in an hurricane of shame, she is so lackluster and unprepared, I'm speechless.

If you are going to bust your post-baby body out in a sexy outfit, you'd best have a slamming body, and while she looks great for having two kids (and actually better than I do after, um, NONE) she is not slamming. Except those margaritas, apparently chased down with a healthy handful of fire cheetos and Taco Bell.

This was totally her chance to go up there and shut everyone's mouths. You'd have thought she would be practicing her ass off, yet by all gossip accounts, she was partying until dawn every night leading up to the event. You just have to watch the other performances to see how other artist, seeking to either establish themselves or further their star-wattage, took the opportunity to create something that people would GASP at.

Remember when Michael Jackson took the stage at the Motown 25th Anniversary Show?
I watched that with my father and both of us, BOTH OF US, were speechless. Breathless during, and absolutely stunned afterwards.

We sat silent a moment, and then my dad said, "My God, what a TALENT!"
This was back when an artist's affectations were forgiven, absolutely, for talent. And MJ flowed along that vein until it was bled dry, frankly.

But while Britney Spears was a major success for the teen-crowd, she never truly translated to the world at large, and her growing pains were, quite honestly, excruciating to watch. She married stupidly, got pregnant stupidly, and then proceeded to destroy her reputation and the solid fan base she'd built up over her brief, but phenomenal, rise.

You cannot move into the adult market by acting like an asshole adult. And yet that's what she did. She broke out of her child-tart persona into a horrifying, ADULT WHORE, new image, replete with idiotic behaviors and questionable parenting choices.

And while I will admit that I breathlessly waited to see how bad she would be, I was not at all prepared for the sympathy I felt on Monday while reading the excoriating reviews. She's a young, dumb girl who grew up quickly and collapsed under a wave of her own ill-choices. She's a young mother who is now divorced, and cannot imagine that her husband married her for herself. She's estranged from her family and brutally abused in the press. I feel bad for her.

But enough about her.

Let's focus on other people, who did this star thing right: THIS lady was at the zenith of her career for this 1990 VMA performance, and she pulled out all the stops.

That is what a STAR is, ladies and gentleman.

NYC with CLP

I started using the Nicorette patch again last week, WELCOME DREAMING, WELCOME WEIRDNESS!
Goodbye morning lung pain and so much wheezing.

The first day I used one I came home early and fell asleep on the couch.

I immediately drifted into a vivid dream.

CLP and I met up in New York. We were both very dressed up, I was wearing the torturous shoes from my NYSE day, yet they didn't hurt me. Which convinced me I was dreaming. We met up in a hotel and hung around the lobby, which looked suspiciously like the Riu Caribe lobby, but more upscale and no palm trees.

We drank several margaritas and then ventured out into the city for some food. I was craving a sundae, one which was also very suspicious, it looked just absolutely exactly like this: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dooce/295333358/ (pardon me, but I'm in Safari and so cannot hyperlink. Damn Safari!)

Along our walk, CLP gradually changed out of her dress up clothes, I would look over and she was dressed up fully, then look away and when I looked back, the blouse was gone, replaced with a hoodie (which I don't think she ever wears) and then looked again and she is in cargo shorts (again, not sure she has ever worn these in my presence) and then finally I looked back and she was in Birkenstocks and right then I was sure again that this was a dream, because I believe she'd rather I drive my thumbs into her eyelids than wear Birks, but maybe the years have changed her. Maybe I always, all along wanted CLP to be a hippy. Regardless, I remember being pissed in the dream, because I hadn't brought any other outfit, and now we didn't match.

We stopped at the place that had the sundaes as pictured above and it was 7 minutes until 10pm. They told us they could seat us, but that they were out of mostly everything, except Thanksgiving dinner. We said, ummmm, really? And the waitress stomped off in a huff. We sat there debating whether or not to just go, and I pleaded with her to let me get my sundae and then we could leave. The waitress returned with a plate of charred hamburgers. "And these are for you," she chirped gaily.

CLP and I looked at each other and in unison got angry. We demanded just our sundae and we would leave. They brought out a dish full of melting ice-cream and Cool-Whip. We took one look and walked away.

Out on the street, we started worrying whether it was too late to eat anywhere. We stopped and talked to the ticketseller in a movie theatre, behind the glass fishbowl, you know? And he assured us it was NYC and we could eat until whenever we damn well pleased. We kept walking and came upon a huge, brightly lit casino, which also advertised mortgage rates. I remember pondering this heavily as I stood and stared at the busy, open air (because of course!) casino. I remember thinking that getting your mortgage at a casino was probably a bad idea, but I was curious how good (or bad) the rates would be. We kept walking and came upon several small shoe stores, all open air, and all with circular displays of shoes.

We split up in the shoe store and I heard CLP exclaiming about all the cute shoes she was trying on. Even in my dream I scoffed, because I will never forget being stoned out of my mind in Amsterdam many years ago while CLP mourned her Fred Flintstone feet in all the cute Dutch shoe stores. And that was after she got pissed because they won't serve mustard with a ham sandwich and the idea of mayonnaise on ham grossed us both out tremendously. I put on a heavily strapped leather shoe which had a lower heel and then limped around with two different shoes trying to see if it would hurt my feet. I picked up one bootie type shoe and the leather flapped around, broken in places. I looked less closely and realized it was a skinned pig head and revoltedly put it back.

(I have explained before that I have a wickedly perverse subconscious, and now you belive me).

At this point the dream ended. We never got food, and we never went anywhere in particular. And I thought about this dream the whole next day, trying to eke some sense out of it. And for a while I thought that it meant something about my friendship with CLP, and how absolutely everything we do is the most fun I've had, even when we do nothing. Even when we sat in her apartment in Cincinnati and played gin rummy and smoked, and used her cool ashtray that had a button that dropped all the ashes into the bottom of the container. Even when we drove around Toledo as teenagers, listening to A Daisy Chain 4 Satan and Skinny Puppy. Even when we ordered delivery food from the one place that delivered in Toledo after 3:00am. Even when we watched the Oscars from a pubic haired bed in an unclean hostel in Amsterdam. Even all those times, I've always had the best time of my life with this girl.

I know what the dream meant.

It means I miss you, Potterchick.
It means I miss you really a lot.

Team Day

Tomorrow is my Team Day.
I'm going Salmon FISHING on a boat.
I have to be at the pier (40 min away) at 5:30am.

Nothing could make me a team player more than getting up at 4:15am.
Let's hope it rocks a bit, I hear we have some squeamish people.

Salmon Fishing.
FISHING!

On a boat - roughly handled and probably minimally cleaned.
On an EARLY BIRD BOAT.

Early + Salome = NOT A TEAM-SPIRIT.
Early + Salome = usually a pretty raging, angry, chainsmoking and fire-eyelid Salome.

Especially because Salome likes to drink margaritas and smoke cigarettes until the wee hours, then top that off with sparkling water and an hour of book.

Salome is in trouble, ladies and gentlemen.

In Other, Non Crushed News

A retrospective of our Holiday Weekend:

1. Watched three movies: The Cave, Fracture and The Lookout

The Cave was actually pretty awesome.

Fracture SUUUUUUUUUCKED. Sucked! Ryan Gosling went to the same teacher that taught Brad Pitt all the tics and twists he uses instead of acting his way through the "Oceans" series. Unwatchable. Bad plot, unbelieveably unbelievable subplots. Yawn.

The Lookout was FAAAAAAAANTASTIC. Run out to your video store this weekend and get it. Stars that kid from 30 Rock and he is a marvel.

2. We went to an awesome party with our awesome friends. Friends, be ye ever so awesome.

3. The Pope hosed down the entire house because the spiders had decided it was theirs. They were wrong. But one thing that always happens when you hose the spiders down? THE BIGGER SPIDERS come out. Thank you, Mr. Horrifying, for the case of heebies I went to bed with. I almost had to call my husband to let me back into the house after my nightly (300th) smoke, because you were too close to the door for my comfort.

4. Both the Pope and I read a book: Maximum Ride by James Patterson. He liked it for its cheap and easy thrills, and how it kept his interest the entire time. I read it (great premise - flying bird people! Sweet!) but I was annoyed by the familiarity of the tone and the childish asides. The damn thing ended abruptly plugging its already-out sequel. It is nice when you read a book in a series and the other ones are out by the time you have finished. It is especially easy to do this when you're reading your way through a plastic bag of paperbacks that a friend of yours dropped off for you at work. I looked online for the sequel and discovered......

Dum Dum Da Dum!

IT IS A KIDS SERIES!!!!!!!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

AhA! Ha! HA!

I'm currently contemplating whether or not I care, and whether or not I'm going to bust my ass over to the 1/2 price book shop on Wednesday and buy everything else that's out. Not that it is great writing, or anything, sniff, but the premise (like I said) is pretty cool and it was an enjoyable read. But I'll be even if I went to the bookstore, they probably won't have any of the other books in the series. I'll bet I'd have to buy them off of Amazon.

Those tweens are pretty miserly with their books.

In other news, I'm watching episodes of that show Flipping Out on Bravo. Guy does good work, but what an asshole. I don't know why those people work for him.

Hope Springs Eternally Crushing

A lady posted an ad on Craigslist Lost and Found on Monday stating that she has found a colony of stray cats in South Seattle. Three of the cats look feral, but one cat, a large orange and white tabby, looked like a lost pet. She said this cat would come close to people, but be started away by any loud noise.

I emailed her immediately and sent a picture of Finny. She called while I was out and told JP where to find the cat colony, complete with makeshift shelter and food area.

The area is about 4 miles N of where we leave. Stretching the bounds of possibility, but not impossible.
Nothing is impossible.

We went there last night and only saw two of the four cats she's seen there, and neither was the orange and white cat.
Tonight we went back, a little later, a little more towards dusk. As we approached, the Pope said, look there...

I looked, and behind a fenced area sat a cat that was almost identical to Finny. ALMOST. And no matter how long I stared, or hoped, or wished, it wasn't Finny. There was an orange spot on this cat's nose.

"Orange Spot?" I asked the Pope, "Or an injury?? Maybe it is blood, and it will wipe right off and underneath that cat will be Finny."

Because it is possible that Finny shrank a couple of inches, and grew fatter, and that his face shape changed, or that the white markings on his face have retreated below his eye level.

How can it be that there are two cats that look so much alike and yet THIS one, THIS FOUND ONE, is NOT my little man?
BECAUSE WHY IS IT MY WORLD THAT HAS TO BE BROKEN, THAT CANNOT BE FIXED?

It wasn't Finny. And my heart, which had swelled up so large it almost broke open my ribs, deflated again.
He is still out there. And he is either lost, dead, taken or (and maybe in all cases) never coming home.

And the world just wants me crushed.

We left a bunch of food for the cats, because even in my broken and banged up world, all cats have someone who loves them.

Carl Jung, I Need Your Help

I've been dreaming of Finny for the last few weeks.
For the last two or three weeks, every other day I would dream that Finny came home. I would dream him in vivid orange, and he would walk through the cat door and say Hi, like he used to.

Or I would dream that he would be in our house when we got home from Cancun (at least three times while on vacation).

Last night (I've just woken up) I dreamed that he came home while I was in the house, getting ready for bed.
He was filthy, thin and skittish. It didn't matter, I curled up next to him on the bed and kissed and hugged him until he fell asleep, exhausted.

And then things got weird. When I woke up (in the dream) I had to go to a hotel for meetings about Scotland. I went to the meetings, which were all about getting people together in a room and then the meeting would abruptly end. I was ALWAYS smoking a cigarette in the dream, and always put it out under the table as soon as my boss appeared, because he HATES smokers.

Somewhere in the middle of this I went to the vet, to make sure Finny was okay, he'd had some stomach seizures in the night, and I wanted to help him be well.

I had Finny in a carrier and we were in line. I explained to the vet that this was urgent, that he'd been missing for three months, and needed to be seen NOW, because anything he had he'd had for months, and we needed to help him. HELP HIM, RIGHT NOW, I shouted, and I was crying in the dream.

They couldn't see him at that moment, but they let me put him into a waiting room. But the waiting room had an opening in the bottom of the door, and Finny kept running out. I didn't want to traumatize him (because maybe he'd decided to leave me for good this time) and so I took him back home in the cat carrier. I did notice that sometime during the night he'd cleaned himself and was no longer filthy with mud.

Then I went back to the vets later that night, but forgot to bring Finny in his carrier.

BY THE WAY - the entire time in real life, my husband is snoring. I kept waking up to yell at him to turn over, and then quickly went back to sleep so I wouldn't miss anything. Finally, at 8:00am this morning, I got up and stomped over to the guest bed so I could dream in peace. As I type this, he is still snoring, he has no shame.

So I'm back at the vets and I forgot to bring Finny! I'm devastated, and all the vets are sitting around a board room table, waiting to examine Finny. It is like a convention of Vets, all the best ones in one place, and I've forgotten Finny!

I make an appointment for the next morning and go back to my ridiculous series of meetings in the hotels.
The next day I get Finny from home and he is now pure white. Instead of bright orange with a white face, chest and paws, he is solid white.

As I'm taking him to the vet, and as I'm at the vets, his orange begins to appear on his shoulders, back and head.
I wake up before the vets tell me what is going on, but the whole time, I'm looking at this white cat, and thinking, this isn't Finny, but then I look in his eyes, and he nuzzles up to me, and I know it really is.

I wish that these dreams meant my little guy was coming home soon. I still really miss him and think about him probably too much. I wish that you could just wish for things and they would happen.

Not for the first time in my life, I wish I could go back to a specific place in time, and do something differently, like shut the cat door on that Monday, May 14th and not let them out that day.