I can’t say with a straight face that I’ve been a good boy this year.
So it must be that I was riding Herself’s coattails when Santa dropped off a holiday gift last night.
We both — yes, both of us — dreamed of our late cat Turkish.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) left us far too early, on March 5, 2020. He and I reconnect now and again in dreams, but never have Herself and I met up with the old soldier at the same time.
In my dream, I was in bed, head propped on the pillows, but the bed was on the front porch of some vaguely familiar house from my past. I was just chillin’ there, watching the world pass by, when the Turk came aboard without so much as a bosun’s whistle and stretched out alongside me, as he did regularly when still he walked the earth.
Surprised to see my old comrade, I turned my head and said to Herself, who was nearby but out of sight, “Hey, check it out!” And then Someone hit the channel changer, the dream shifted gears, and I was lucky to have the warm memory of it when I awakened this morning.
Herself was scurrying around getting ready for work when I shambled into the kitchen and told her I’d dreamed of the big fella.
“I did too!” she said.
In her dream I wasn’t there, but her dad was, or might have been, though I don’t recall Bob Pigeon and the Turk being all that tight. He probably tried to explain how the Turk was going about the whole cat thing all wrong, and that would be as far as their relationship would ever go, because the field marshal was very much not interested in advice from junior officers.
Now, a cynic might write the whole visitation off as the upshot of eating spicy Mexican dishes for about a week straight, plus a few too many sugary seasonal treats.
But I know a gift when I see one. What a joy it was to have an old friend home for the holidays.
Mad Blog Media 
On my long walks I find myself accompanied by revisiting Corgis and Giant Schnauzers, long gone now. A blessing.
A blessing indeed. Comforting.
Your touching missive tugged on the friction shift cables of my heart.
Then I wandered over to The Shelf O’ Ashes (three felines, one mother-in-law) and had a silent eye washing.
Be well and happy holidays.
Ah, we have such a shelf as well. One cat, one dog; the humans are all ensconced elsewhere (as are two cats and three dogs). I kissed my fingertips and placed them on the Turk’s enclosure. Which, it seems, is not his final resting place. He always was a rover.
Best to you and yours.
We were cleaning out old photos and slides the other day, and came across a sympathy card we got from the veterinarian when Beau the dog returned to the source. On the front of the card was something we didn’t notice until now. It was a picture of a West highland terrier that looked exactly like Duffy. Rod Serling stuff is what. Duffy was preordained it seems.
Have a happy holiday all who gather here. We are heady to the state park cabin in the rain. It was not forecasted, only 30% chance the NWS said. Our hike in the morning is iffy at this point. I sent them five pounds of sand to pound up their asses.
That’s the way the Big Wheel spins, hey? We ended up with Miss Mia Sopaipilla because she made the case for herself in a heartbeat, pressing that little mug of hers up against the jailhouse window with those green eyes like saucers and mouthing, “I never did it, whatever it was! Not guilty! Get me a lawyer!”
So we sprung her and she’s still here, 18 going on 19.
Happy happy joy joy, and good luck with the weather. My buddies Chris and Merrill in California are growing moss on their north sides, and gills, too.
“Another mugshot? Piss off, I’m tryin’a sleep here.”
There is an urn on the mantle that contains the ashes of six (6) Golden
Retrievers in the small silver pill vials. Our favorite cats were free-range creatures on 10 acres in Montana, and their ashes were scattered in the happy hunting grounds of their home. My Goldens sometimes visit my dreams. The goldens left me too soon, but left great, if sad, memories.