Wounded Fish

I dreamt that my sister and I were investigating some kind of murder. We are in a house and we come to a room full of cats. But the cat we seek, a silvery tabby, is missing.

There is evidence of missing cats in another room, plus an injured fish named Ivan. We find a row of stools in another room and it's sort of a cat hospital; on each stool is an injured cat. These are sort of bar stools with low backs by the way, a row of about seven of them. The stool that should have our missing cat is empty. Next to it, wrapped in swaddling, covered in a blanket, is a weird shape. My sister lifts the blanket and screams. It is the tortured body of the missing fish Ivan.

We go to the kitchen, to our left, and await the owner of the house who will come. He is outside the kitchen door. He is a fat man with a rifle. We have our pistols ready. He will be here in just a minute, I say. (Actually I'm not sure if I say it or my sister says it, but in those minutes, my sister is suddenly a strange man, then my sister again.) We hear footsteps. Shots ring out. I wake up.