THE MEAGAN DREAM

THE MEAGAN DREAM

James R. Fisher, Jr., Ph.D.
© November 3, 2009

BACKGROUND

Meagan was our calico cat who died while we were in Europe in 2003. BB and Jennifer were quite close to her. I got to know her on my own when we were in Europe in the 1980s, so Meagan was quite old when she passed on.

Meagan would jump up on my desk or my computer while I was working. I would pick her up and put her outside the door of my study, and she would sit there until I opened it to go for more coffee. Then she would scoot back in, and repeat her behavior until I finally relented and left the door open.

We had this huge place in Brussels with high ceilings and large rooms. I'm something of a cleannik and would vacuum whenever I saw cat litter on the carpet. European litter would stick to Meagan's paws, but it must have seemed like punishment because once the vacuum cleaner came out she would fly to a rafter, head for one of the bathrooms, or camp high on the woodwork overlooking the fireplace.

Meagan never liked the vacuum cleaner, so I would forewarn her, "I have to vacuum now." Hearing the word, "vacuum" would find her moving slowly out of sight and harm's way. It was when I didn't warn her that she would show panic.

Over the years as a writer with BB in her professional job as an accountant and business manager, the two of us home, alone, I would talk to her about my writing, my ideas, about my concerns, even my angers.

Meagan would sit there attentively with her ears perked up acting as if she was listening no doubt thinking she shared the space with a disturbed man.

No athlete in my experience could leap from one bookcase to another, or from one tall stanchion to another with such grace and poetry. Even flying from the carpet to a sofa or chair was a matter of exquisite grace and poetry. I would tell her that if I had had such athleticism I would have been a professional basketball player. She would cock her head to the side as if to say, "Don't you wish!"

Our affection for each other was gradual, very gradual, as I came into her space unannounced with little interest in domesticated animals much less a highly athletic and intelligent cat. It didn't take me long, however, to respect her independence, appreciate her self-reliance, or marvel at her hygiene, dutifully licking her paws and constantly grooming her beautiful calico coat. Why I should dream of her now is as much a mystery to me as it might be to my sharing it with you, but here it is.


THE DREAM OF MEAGAN

It is very hot. I am in the city. I have taken off my jacket and long sleeve shirt and tied them around my waist. I am carrying Meagan under my right arm. Meagan is small and light and yet my wet T-shirt is matted to my skin and her beautiful coat is matted and snarled with sweat as well. I can't put her down because I'm afraid she will run off and get lost. Since I am already lost and struggling to find my way, I am consumed with that possibility.

As a rule, she doesn't like to be held. I don't like it. But it would seem there is an understanding this is the best of all possible worlds for us at the moment. I say this because she makes no attempt to jump down and run off.

We have been walking down narrow streets, climbing streets that seem almost perpendicular, always coming out more lost than ever. Nothing seems familiar. People pass by and ignore us as if we are invisible.

Meagan and I are not only hot and sweaty, but also hungry and thirsty because we haven't eaten or rested for hours.

Finally, we come out of the claustrophobic and stultifying heat of the city into the open countryside. There are no trees; no relief from the heat as the sun beats down on us unmercifully.

"I've got to put you down, Meagan," I say, "and you can walk beside me like a dog walks beside its master." She turns her head and looks up at me with pinpoints of contempt. "Honest," I continue, "you'll find it will be cooling and far less clammy not having to share my body heat."

I put her down, and start walking. I look back. She has not moved. Dust is blowing in her face but she's paying it no mind. She is standing there on all fours staring at me.

"Now what's wrong?" I ask, "Is it what I said? Is it because I compared you to a dog?"

She cocks her head to the side. Her ears perk up. "Well, I'm sorry. I'm not myself. I'm lost. I'm tired. And if you want to know the truth I'm just a little bit desperate. So, I could use a little understanding." She doesn't take her eyes off me.

"You ought to know by now I'm not at my best when I'm upset. Well, I'm upset now, okay? All I know is to go forward. I don't know anything else. I haven't any answers. If we don't get some water soon, I'll tell you this much, it'll all be academic. Understand?"

Meagan still doesn't move. "Have it your way. I'll get down on all my fours and say I'm sorry for bringing up the subject of dogs, okay?" I get down next to her and she jumps on my shoulder. I get up and cradle her in my arms. She snuggles her head in the crook of my neck and purrs. "I don't believe it. You would rather be hot and clammy than feeling the cool breeze?" I shake my head. She snuggles closer.

Then for the first time I feel her blood throbbing through her little body, feel the rhythm of her heart, and know she is as scared as I am, that she feels we might be in the hands of destiny and won't come out of this alive. Knowing this, her pulsing body tells me she wouldn't mind a little discomfort. I squeeze her gently. She purrs knowing why.

The road is open, dusty and seemingly endless, as if it will drop off to nothing. A piece of debris catches me in the eye and I feel my eye tearing. I shiver a little feeling sweat trickle down my spine. I look down to see if Meagan notices. She only snuggles closer. Somehow this feels reassuring.

At last, up ahead there is a gas station with an attached broken down building made into a restaurant. No cars are outside. Flies are everywhere and the screen door has holes in it. A bell jingles when we enter.

"No animals allowed in her, mister," a lady says with a flabby face hair in curlers and a cigarette dangling from her lips.

"This isn't an animal. This is Meagan my cat and we just want a drink of water."

"Got any money?"

I shake my head, "No."

"Got a credit card?"

"No."

"Then you best be off."

"All we want is some water."

"What's the problem, Myrtle?" A voice cries out from the back room.

"No problem, Oscar, this fellow is leaving, aren't you, mister?"

With slumping shoulders brushing the flies off both of us, I push the screen door and feel the dust blowing in my face. No sooner did I experience this, and try to wipe my eyes then Meagan squirms frantically, her paws scratching my arm as she leaps to the ground, reminding me of how she acts when I'm about to take her to the vet's.

She runs off and I followed her to the back of the place where there is a rain-collecting basin. How she knew it was there I don't know but she did. She cups her front paws under her and buries her face in the watering lapping it up nosily as if she has never tasted water before.

I drop down beside her, cup my hands into the water and gulp it down but still noting its slightly metallic taste, but it is a feast nonetheless. We will survive!

Then I wake up.