Psychosis of a Preggo's Dreams

I dreamed of my Bailey last night.  However, as with all of my dreams, it was bizarre and a little bit disturbing on a comical level.

I'm at home and I hear him screaming. Apparently, he got the bottom left side of his lip caught in the zipper of my knock-off Vera Bradley cosmetic bag. What he was doing in that bag, I have no idea. It's not very large, plus I use it to hold womanly effects in my purse. I have only recently removed it from my purse and put it into the HBA closet figuring I was now safe to acknowledge I was pregnant and would not be needing a tampon at least for another five months.

Anyway, I run to my Bays and see him crying in pain. I carefully put him in his cat carrier and the frantic running around that I love to do in my dreams commences.

I first run with him and my other two cats, who mysteriously are not in cat carriers, to NukeBoy's home. Which is actually my home now, but instead of a simple colonial, I'm in a huge Victorian that is, incidentally filled with my mother's nine cats. NukeBoy's not home; he's away on business, which in reality, makes sense. He actually is away on business. So the house feels barren and a bit scary.

I'm worried with all these cats running around the house. I keep thinking that my youngest cat, Fletcher, is going to get in a cat-fight with my mom's cats. I'm trying to placate Bailey, control Fletcher, and find an all-night vet to get him fixed up. Of course, this is all happening in the middle of the night in a dimly lit house. In my mind I keep thinking of the best course of action. We'll have to put him under anesthesia in order to get his lip dislodged from the zipper, kinda like Ben Stiller in There's Something About Mary.


At this point I wake up. I'm very upset; mainly sad thinking about my Baymeister. It's about quarter to four: my usual during-the-night pee break anyway, so I get up to go. Climbing back into bed I'm thwarted trying to get back to sleep. Images of poor Bailey with his lip hanging from his mouth from the weight of my menstrual tote and the now persistent kicks from my baby. My mind flashes from Bailey's lip to that guy that got a full face transplant. I guess now I know where my subconscious got the idea.


I must have eventually fallen back to sleep because my dream picked right back up where I left off. This time I'm trying to navigate my way through a narrow path at Slater Park in a huge SUV with Uncle Buck and mysteriously, NukeBoy, to the dog pound, which is somehow a vet clinic, too.

There is some sort of nighttime event going on, maybe the remnants of people leaving a concert. I eventually weave through everyone and get into the pound and the woman veterinarian takes a look at Bailey. She's very peppy with short blonde hair. I'm trying to convince her that we should put Bailey under so he doesn't feel any pain. Uncle Buck and NukeBoy are wandering around the pound. I'm having trouble keeping track of everyone, which is really upsetting me, when all of a sudden, I turn around and watch as the vet pulls Bailey's lip like an elastic band. His lip smacks back to his face and the bag is removed. The vet is very excited about this. I can feel the horror-stricken look on my face.

I wake up. The alarm's going off.

Wow, Freud. Analyze that.


Yankee Doodle Dandy,
– TYG