Dreams are funny things. We go to bed, get all comfy in our sheets and quilts and pillows, and the moment we shut our eyes, our brains go to work, sorting and analyzing events of the day, week, month. But at some point, that process stops and dreams provide us with the raw material of the future.
Sometimes, these dreams are so literal you know what’s headed your way. Two weeks before my mother passed on, I had an early morning dream where I was at a writers’ conference (and had, in real life, just returned from such a conference) when someone handed me a post-it with this message: Your mother has died. When I headed out to breakfast that morning and related the dream to Rob and my dad, who was living with us at the time, my dad said, “I dreamed that she died, too.”
Right then, we both knew her death was imminent.
Since then, I pay attention to these early morning dreams, which seem to deliver clues about what’s coming up in my life. On August 1, I had one of those early morning dreams and it bolted me into full wakefulness. I glanced around the room, taking stock, taking inventory.
Thanks to the night light in a nearby bathroom, I could see Noah snoozing on a quilt next to his crate, the place Nika occupied when she lived here. Simba, our five-year-old orange tabby featured in the photo above, was stretched out alongside me. As usual, Rob was hogging the pillows. I flipped over onto my back and Simba climbed on top of me and as I shut my eyes, I remembered my dream:
I hurry up the hallway from the bedroom and encounter Simba. He has been dismembered by a dog – his body literally cut in half, and is somehow still alive. I’m freaking out, shrieking for Rob, screaming that we need to get Simba to a vet. Simba, like our other two cats, came to us through our daughter, Megan. She chose him, he’s our only male cat, and for a long time, he used to sleep with her.
In the dream, my dad suddenly materializes. “He’s in pain, Trish,” he says (or something like that), and pulls out a puny .22 pistol and shoots Simba, ending his misery.
In real life, my dad never shot anything. He owned a .38 because in his later years he became paranoid about robbers, break-ins, etc. So now I’m beginning to think that dream was a hint about what was coming up for Megan’s pet (Simba in the dream, Nika in waking life): A dog (pitt bull) attack in the neck, which necessitated drainage tubes in her neck. I also think it’s a synchronicity in terms of after life communication; my dad often appears in my dreams to deliver messages, warnings, affirmations.
If I had been paying closer attention, I might have been able to warn Megan to be vigilant about Nika when it came to other dogs. But, frankly, this option never occurred to me.
And that’s the challenge with precog dreams, at least for me. The interpretation. I know I drove Simba crazy, checking on him every hours of the day. But…
The update on Nika: the tube in her neck has been removed, she’s her usual bouncy, joyful self. Today, Megan presented the owner of the pitt with the vet bill for Nika – $1300 and loose change. The woman promised she and her boyfriend would pay by next Friday. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll be knocking at their door on Saturday. I’m a pretty laid back person until an injustice hits someone I love. And then it’s not a pretty sight.