Thursday, January 17, 2013

Orders Not Carried Out, But Followed Through

(This was an odd dream I had a few nights back. )


I opened my eyes and the first sense that swept over me was a distinct urge of responsibility. There were five cats in total, each with a very feline personality, calm and excessively pampered. Of course they would be under the roof of the sexiest Daddy Warbucks the world has ever seen.

The adrenaline rush must've been calming down. I was perplexed by my inability to retrieve the memory of the actions that brought me through the intricate security obstacle course that must've been stolen from Iron Man's blueprints. Even during the early stages of a potentially city-wide crisis, no one would merely let me waltz through the front door of Johnny Depp's mansion.

I heard my name. The intercom system. The comfortable feeling of familiarity replaced what was once the star-struck fangirl thrill that met the face and voice of the great Quentin Tarantino. From Headquarters, Mr. Tarantino acted as my mission operator and dispatcher; not surprisingly, he was awesome as it.

"You need to get out of there. They're coming for you. I've disabled all of the alarms. You're clear to transport, but only if you leave now!" The monitor switched feeds; what was once Mr. Tarantino's face had become the outer gates of the mansion, where the large, ferocious gorilla-like creatures snarled and howled. "Get out now!" Tarantino repeated, cuing me to turn towards my mission: to lead Mr. Depp's pet cats, one by one, out the door to the safehouse down the street, using only the power of gentle influence. The long-haired Persian-- (No collar? I'll call her Fluffy.)-- had already begun expressing her full intention of ignoring me with a superfluous grooming ritual.

As I began my well-versed singsong calls and beckoning gestures, the back of my mind bitterly wondered what had happened to the other two agents assigned to this mission. My aggravation grew as I imagined my two long-term comrades sitting around a few cups of steaming cappuccinos chatting it up with the friendly and brilliant film-director side of the otherwise dispatching dichotomy. While this side thought helped relieve some of the stress of the situation, Princess Fluffy could sense my distraction and felt no need to pay me any attention. I needed to regain control; my sweeping gestures became perfectly-timed and persuasive, and my "Here kitty, kitty, kitty"s were on fire. The fur ball followed, albeit with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Slowly but surely, we made our way outside through the secret side exit. I heard the ape-creatures yowling and whooping in the distance, on the other side of the mansion. Fluffy and I would make it to the safehouse (in her unhurried time) and, upon approaching the shack at last, I began to feel a sense of dread... One down, four to go... Saving the neighborhood one cat at a time...

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