In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming “I Don’t Wanna Know” by Fleetwood Mac faded in from the forgotten jukebox of my skull. At the same time, a mangy alley cat, tail like a rat-whip, slunk across the dreamscape, all twitching muscle and dumpster-fed desperation. On its heels was a German shepherd, a low-slung Panzer tank of teeth and fury. The chase was a ballet of brick and shadow, a whirlwind of guttural barks and desperate hisses. Holy hell, it was all too much like some third-rate vaudeville skit, and i was the sucker in the front row.

Then, the inevitable clash… a screech like rusty nails on a chalkboard. Fur and blood painted the asphalt. Out of the corner of my eye, i saw the culvert, a concrete maw leading to some underworld. And inside? Another dog, swollen belly taut, eyes glowing like those green roadside reflectors that warn of deer.

Cut to an old folks’ home. The air thick with the smell of grits and regret. A robot cat, fir and plastic absurdity, purrs on the lap of a lonesome resident, its twitching ears a parody of life.

My boondocking dreamscape then spun me round like a cyclone… a funeral, the wind whipping at jacketless mourners like crows in the dead of winter. The mourners were teeth chattering in the face of an early spring blast straight outta the Arctic Circle. It was the pure indifference of Mother Nature… the whole damn universe a cosmic joke, a punchline as old as life itself.

And i, the dreamer, was stuck. Should i help the alley cat… all bone and defiance? Or was it the pregnant dog’s turn for a meal? This was some ice-age saber-tooth dilemma, the kind that’d make Jeremiah spit fire and chew nails for breakfast.

I woke up with a jolt, sleeping bag in a tangle, a strangled scream clogged in my throat. And i had the strangest damn notion… somehow, that robot cat in the nursing home, the alley cat, and the song, they were all connected. Many sides of the same warped die, mechanical pity thrown against raw instinct… and the music of heartbreak.

The whole world, it seemed, was like a dreamscape where choices are never clear-cut. Maybe that’s the point, but i honestly don’t know… it was, however, time to fire up the propane stove and make the coffee and grits for another day on the road… Hot Springs or Busk!

Cheers… R.H.