Last night I had a dream. I dreamed that there was a mouse in our house, and when I discovered it, in my dream, I caught it by the quickest, most resourceful method I could come up with in the spur of the moment – with my bare hand. It was a wiggly little thing, this mouse in my dream, but I managed to hang onto it without either of us getting hurt. Knowing that the mouse would need to be released a considerable distance from the house so it wouldn’t find its way back in, I proceeded to make my way into the woods, intending to go as far as I could, right to the very end of our property. The mouse in my dream was actually rather cute, and with every step I took through the woods, I found myself falling more and more in love with the little creature. It was, then, a tearful moment when I finally said goodbye to my new little friend as I sent it on its way.
The dream was not a surprise. You see, we’ve had an actual mouse in our house the last couple of days – maybe longer, but I just saw it for the first time a couple of days ago, a little brown streak out of the corner of my eye, disappearing under the couch, never to be seen again. I set a trap, a nice little humane trap designed to keep the mouse alive for release back into the wild.
Sure enough, when I awoke this morning the trap door was closed, so I prepared to live out my dream by taking the trap outside. But that’s where the similarities ended – my real mouse (probably a vole, actually) was dead; in fact, rigor mortis had already set in. Perhaps due to my dream (or the fact that I am such a softie), I realized that I was upset by the little creature’s demise. It really was a little cutie!