Cheshire

Last night Rian dreamed of my father's cat.

His ghost sat on my chest, as I lay stretched face up amongst dream sheets. He lashed his strip'd tail and purred, whiskers curled forward. Rian could open dream eyes, yes? But not move. A variation of the Old Hag vision, one supposes.

I was not alarmed. Neither was I comfortable. I believe I wanted to ask if they had buried him.

Of all Rian's family, the cat loved me second best, after my father. He slept with me as a kitten, whilst my father was going mad in hotel rooms, and followed me about.

The cat always remembered Rian, and came to call when I stopped home to visit, often bringing a plump rat as a gift. I loved him terribly, yet I have felt no grief since his death.

Perhaps the dream was a Scold.