Dream: Motorcycle ride and cats in a bag

The dream I had upon waking the first time is mostly lost. There’s one trigger for it that will hopefully come up so I can recall it later. Oh, driving a motorcycle. That was it.

I’m not sure where I was coming from, maybe I’ll remember later, but I was driving through downtown Saginaw on this small kind of motorcycle on my way to my mom’s house. Before I took off from somewhere my mom was there, asking me if I was sure I could do it. I knew how to adjust gears and accelerate, though at first my legs felt like they were pedaling, and I thought that driving was such an undemanding physical act, that all I had to do was press an accelerator. This is all ridiculous, by the way, as though my legs were in another vehicle, though looking down I could only see this yellow motorbike. (I can’t drive anything in real life though, by the way. I’ve never had any kind of license and have never as much as touched a motorcycle). I know there was more to the dream, but I don’t recall it anymore. I woke up, went back to sleep and had another dream.

Dream 2:

I was at my aunt’s with my mom. My cousins were there, and Kayla’s (my older cousin) car wasn’t working, and this group of dudes got out of a car that pulled up in the driveway to work on it. It was higher off of the ground than in real life, and the exhaust was pointing back underneath the vehicle, and it burned, not quite like a flame, but more formless and transparent. I pointed it out to the dudes working, that it should absolutely not be heating up the underside of the car, and there should definitely not be flames near her gas tank.

Rachel, my younger cousin, picked up the old exhaust and aimed it under the car, and it too began to shoot flames, as if it was emitting gas that needed a spark to ignite. I kind of grabbed her back and was worried about the exhaust pipe she was holding exploding or burning her or something. Eventually it seemed like everything was fixed and the dudes who came were going to leave. My mom and I walked around the front yard to my mom’s yard and the hose my mom had brought from the backyard was running full blast. Rachel was standing next to the running hose with one of the dudes, and she was carrying this tiny plastic bag-like container that kind of resembled a goldfish that she’d filled with water.

“Great,” my mom or I said. “I wonder how long it’s been running.” I’m guessing Rachel said it was on when she came or something. So I bent to close it, and the hose was clear, and there were goldfish swimming against the current, trying to stay in the hose, which was elastic and flexible. I tilted the hose up to try to give the fish a chance to get further in before I turned the shut off valve, and finally got it without squishing any fish. When I tilted the hose up, the material of it stretched out into a large cylinder, like a tank, and I thought it was kind of neat, if my mom hadn’t put fish in it.

But suddenly, instead of being fish, they were tiny kittens, about ten of them, all sleeping. My mom started to talk about how they hadn’t been growing, and I said “of course not, they’re underfed.” My mom kind of nodded, and talked about how some of them had been developing horns, which I understood she was talking about feathers on ducks’ heads growing in a certain way. I said that they should be fully grown by now because they’ve been the same size for the last couple of times I had been there to visit, and she nodded, agreeing. “Mom, they’re cats. You can’t keep them in water or in this container.”

I picked up the bag, which was now devoid of water and made of a non-stretchy plastic with a zipper around its circumference. It was beginning to get steamy on the inside. I was surprised they hadn’t suffocated, and when I picked them up, their little bodies were warm. I was thinking that it was too bad I couldn’t take them home with me, wondering if my mom was losing it, and then I opened the container.

The kittens jumped out, but they were big, like a kitten that was six months old instead of a few days. I looked at the back of one, white and dappled (this was all underneath an apple tree in my mom’s front yard) through the sunlight from above, and thought, “this isn’t right.” Of course, as soon as I get that “wait a second” trigger, I wake up.