The last couple of nights I've been dreaming about cats. I do that a lot. When I'm feeling philosophical I sometimes think that in my own personal dream symbolism that cats represent happiness. Cat dreams are always good dreams. These dreams aren't always about real cats I've known. In fact usually they are nameless strangers. I suspect that some of them have escaped from Ulther, the city in the Dreamlands of H.P. Lovecraft where no man may harm a cat.
Last night's dream, however, concerned real cats from my childhood. I dreamed I had returned to the house I grew up in. Three of my cats were lazing on the carport. There was Wildfire, the solid black cat that followed my mother everywhere like a dog. There was The Gray Cat, who was one of my favorites but somehow remained without a name his entire life and was simply known as The Gray Cat. And there was Shere Khan, the calico who was the best hunter I ever saw and yet retained her kittenish playfulness for the 14 years we had her. Good cats all. They ran to the screen door when I arrived and I let them into the kitchen, where I gave them some food and sat on the floor among them, listening to them purr and watching them dash about on business known only to cats.