Bread cat
I’m walking through a sea of protestors in white robes, belted by red sashes. They bob in and out of focus as I look around, like seagulls on water. I pass a young blonde girl with a stretch of maroon beads draped around her neck. She tells me they’re protesting for “peace everywhere,” a slogan that seems a little vague to be effective, but hey, it’s not my movement.
I push through the masses and I’m at the edge of a park. On top of a squat stone marking the park’s end is a grey cat, just like my roommate’s pet Bubba. The dream cat is younger, with bright green eyes, and lays on its side while I rub it’s belly.
Its claws grip me, lightly, but I have these thick industrial rubber gloves on—the kind you’d wear to weld. As I’m petting it the gloves turn into bread—flexible, formed baguettes—that begin to disintegrate while I move my hands along the cat’s fur. I start to worry: can cats eat bread? Will he accidentally swallow some crust and have an allergic reaction? Will the bread become painfully lodged in his fur? I brush off as much as I can before the dream cuts off.
