A few patrons ahead of us in line at the donut store, the poet wore a floor-length emerald green robe with gold trim; he alternately quoted verses and flirted loudly with his sister. My mother imprecated quietly in my ear, mainly about the Catholic church, since the poet's popular latest volume was dedicated to his priest - and all profits supposedly went to the local parish.
I worried they would run out of coffee before I got to the front counter; back in the schoolbus, five of my labmates waited for lattes and mochas. With budget cuts in federal research money, charter buses had become a popular alternative to airlines as a means of transport to scientific meetings.
A few minutes later, I was riding in a converted van with my father. I opened a trapdoor in the middle of the floor and peered down into the dark subcompartment.
"Did you know there was a cat in a cage down here?" I asked him. I scanned the dim space anxiously, trying to determine if the animal was emaciated or dehydrated.
"What?" he responded.
"And a kitten. No three kittens. More cats. There must be half a dozen caged cats!" My voice echoed loudly in the space below, sounding more agitated than I actually felt; looking around the cats were clean, groomed.
My father sighed. "It's probably another rescue by your mother." He shrugged.
I woke groggy and parched, the most vivid memory that first moment looking through the floor at the cats, a sense of terror and sadness at what I might find. A few days ago I'd had a dream I put two kittens in a tupperware container and half-killed them with neglect.
I'm going to assume that dreaming of healthy well-cared for cats is a better sign. As for the preist, the poet, the schoolbus and my mom... I probably just need to hand that off to a starving comedian.
