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Sammy must have gotten into another fight. I see another gauge mark on his head, deep enough to see red. My poor warrior. I fear that his skull must be close to cracking up on him, having taken a number of serious hits already. It isn't affecting his behavior in any way, except perhaps to make him appear a little more ginger about life today, a bit downcast. In conjunction with his old age, I wish this latest episode might tame him. I wish that he might feel it is time to retire from wild nightly searches for adventure, especially since it is not as though the poor thing can ever enjoy the deep masculine satisfaction of sexual conquest. Sammy has always been my most troublesome and annoying cat, but I am reminded, seeing him in his vulnerability, of how much I love the little feline beast.
While I have a page open for a journal entry, I think I'll use it also to get down a dream from last night. The dream is not really worthy of another page of its own, but is yet worth remarking on. It was a McDonald's dream. I haven't had one of these in years and ages. I was in the shop and working about, helping to cook the food. I was struggling in it, not having seemed to master all its little routines, but I was doing well enough to keep bumbling along, with nobody pulling me aside and asking me what the hell I was doing.
In the past, I tended to think that these dreams reflected an inclination to go ahead and get another such job. I cannot begin to believe that this is the case today. In my fifties, there is not even a half-thought that I might join the work-a-day world after all this time. My fate is done and wrapped up, with only the dying left to do. I suppose this dream is merely nostalgia-borne. I do think about, from time to time, my experiences and the people I knew from those teenage years, and I suppose this errant dream is but some of the emotional detritus from such musings.
While I have a page open for a journal entry, I think I'll use it also to get down a dream from last night. The dream is not really worthy of another page of its own, but is yet worth remarking on. It was a McDonald's dream. I haven't had one of these in years and ages. I was in the shop and working about, helping to cook the food. I was struggling in it, not having seemed to master all its little routines, but I was doing well enough to keep bumbling along, with nobody pulling me aside and asking me what the hell I was doing.
In the past, I tended to think that these dreams reflected an inclination to go ahead and get another such job. I cannot begin to believe that this is the case today. In my fifties, there is not even a half-thought that I might join the work-a-day world after all this time. My fate is done and wrapped up, with only the dying left to do. I suppose this dream is merely nostalgia-borne. I do think about, from time to time, my experiences and the people I knew from those teenage years, and I suppose this errant dream is but some of the emotional detritus from such musings.
