It’s rare that I can recall my dreams, even more rare that I understand the seemingly wackier ones. But this morning I woke with a clear image of a tiger in my life – an actual tiger had become my pet.
He was a sweet boy – I named him Gus – and he would fetch things (sticks and rubber balls, not small animals,) and was very affectionate. I was, of course, terrified of Gus because he was a fully grown tiger, no matter how good it felt when he would nuzzle my face, I knew the power of the teeth behind the fur.
Later in my dream I am speaking on the phone with a woman. I was lamenting how I cannot recall who gave me the tiger, but I have to get rid of dear, sweet, Gus. The woman on the line said that she gave me the tiger. Of course she gave me the tiger, I thought, it’s just like her: rare, beautiful, powerful, loving, and capable of ripping my heart out with her bare hands.
By the by, I didn’t go to the costume party; I didn’t dress as Top Chef, but I did have the most interesting Halloween since third grade when I – the only black guy in a school filled with shiny white people* – went as a Klansman. Recall how awkward I thought it was to have bickering clients at a Valentine’s Dinner? Yeah my Saturday night clients made the V-Day couple look like Ward and June Cleaver. That story will be told later this week.
* Phrase shamelessly lifted from my favorite Mommy Blogger, Lemon Gloria, who probably would bristle at the notion of being called a mommy blogger