On the weekend, I dreamed about Tungsten again. It was a stranger dream than the first.
I was in a mobile home, in which I lived many, many years ago, so long ago that Trudeau was prime minister. Hey, wait a minute… (That’s a joke for Canadians.) Anyway, it was a residence from my past, and Tungsten was there; she would of course have not been born for some time when I lived in the mobile home. Anyway, I think I knew in the dream that she had died, and was delighted to see her again. I could feel how soft her fur was, and how thin her little body was. She was always a skinny cat. There was no astonishment at holding her once more, despite her demise.
I brought a friend to show Tungsten had returned but apparently by then I lived in a narrow apartment in a row of shops that filled one side of the local university’s main concourse. (There is no such row of shops in real life). I was looking for the right place but couldn’t find it, and concluded, within my dream, that my reunion with the orange one had been a dream itself - a dream within a dream.
It’s been ten and a half months since the tiny terror departed. She remains the only one of the cats I’ve adopted who appears to my subconscious, perhaps because, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, all the others are with me in the real world. It would be pleasant to hold Tungsten in my waking life once more. That would indeed be a dream come true.