The mother of all nightmares

This morning I had the most horrible dream. There was a tsunami, a plane crash, a terrible lightning storm that targeted poor syncronized swimmers on the fjord and left them smoking and burning in their melting dry suits, and an explosion in Mum&Dad's house. In the last, frantic minutes I tried desperately to get everyone I loved out of the house before it blew up, and I couldn't get people to understand the urgency.

Except for Line, of course, she always understands everything. Finally, I had to run outside, where we stood, hugging eachother. But just as the windows lit up with fire, they came tumbling out the door: Peter, Eivind, Mum, Kjeld, a few of the swimmers that we had managed to save.

But not Dad! He had, as always, gone to the bathroom at the last minute. We howled, and incredibly, he answered. We managed to pull him out through the broken window, and he was fine.

And then the cat meowed. She must still be in there! But no, she was standing outside the bedroom door. I'm pretty sure she knew I was having a bad dream and wanted to help. I let her in, and she jumped onto the bed and put her paws on the panic knot in my stomach and kneaded it until it went away, and purred reassuringly. Then she curled up on my pillow, putting her chin on my cheek, warding off any sequels.

See, I don't really mind the hairs, little cat. Thanks.