I was napping, as I was (how often does that happen — that what I was doing in my dream was what I was actually doing?), then I needed to crate Hodge because he’d bitten me (which he’d done this morning for the first time in months). When I woke up (in the dream), I had a snarling, twisting cat to contend with — but his crate had been dismantled in the oddest ways. The door was gone, but it was suddenly two half doors, parts of which I found later. A square was missing from the top, which I also eventually found. It occurred to me that this was possibly the work of my father, and depressing evidence he might have dementia problems (my father hasn’t been in Chicago since the 1950s, and he passed away in 2001).

My dad came thundering in the door after I had jury-rigged a crate together from what seemed like disparate pieces from two jigsaw puzzles. He was furious about something, screaming at me about something I had done that was beyond all pales, all norms. My brother (who has never been in Chicago past O’Hare International Airport) was behind him and explained that Dad was upset that I had not visited and/or gone to the funeral of a particular Mexican woman to whom we owed so much (I don’t think my dad ever knew any Mexican women). Dad pretended not to see the cat carrier and wouldn’t calm down enough to listen to my questions.

I was just dazed.

Although I hated being yelled at, I didn’t want the dream to end, because at least part of my family was together again.