In passing, my 9-year-old son Ben mentioned that he would like a cat.  I reminded him of my mild cat allergy.  I thought that was the end of it, until last night…

NIGHTMARE ON PURR STREET

Drifting off to sleep, my mind wandered deep.  Deep to a place that I had shut off.  Deep to a corner of my brain, where only fears remain.  Purr Street.

In the dream, a friend announced that they had purchased young Ben a cat.  Ben was of course excited.  I was shaking with anger and fear.

I tried to stop the madness.  “We can’t take the cat.  I’m allergic,” I shouted.

The response from the chorus was robust, “You can get a prescription for that.”

I whined, “I should not have to take a pill for a cat.”

The chorus glared at me in disappointment over my selfish behavior.

“We have a perfectly good dog.  Play with him,” I begged.

“Isn’t this cat cute?,” the chorus redirected, as it help aloft an adorable tabby kitten.

I jolted myself awake.  My heart racing.  Body covered in nervous sweat.  The dog had a look of concern.