Erica J Myers

That Dream About Marx

I had the saddest and cutest dream. I dreamed that Brian’s friend, Brian, had come to visit us in our new home. Marx, our cat, asked if he could borrow the suit for the day.

*****Let me explain*****

[My brain works differently and accepts most things people’s wouldn’t. So, in my dream, cats and dogs speak in languages we understand. You can purchase a temporary human body suit for them to wear. This means they are on their hind legs, using their fingers, toes, et cetera. Most animals know about the differences in races, but my cat had chosen a suit in the form of a young, black man, maybe in his 20s, athletic, short hair cut, actually attractive-looking. The clerk even looked at us strange and tried to get Marx to change his mind, but Marx wanted that suit. The suits come nude, so you do have to buy clothes.]

Marx puts on his suit, gets dressed and announces that he’s going to the park to play basketball. We waved bye and he headed out in his gear. I noticed the material of the suit was getting worn out. They didn’t make them in the best material and Marx had been caught outside in the rain a few times.

So, Brian, Brian, and I are sitting back, drinking wine, watching a movie. The hours flew by and it’s now dark outside. I’m beginning to worry about Marx. Suddenly, we hear the front door close.

“How was your day at the park?”

“Good. I played some ball. The guys are amazed at how high I can jump.”

“Did you ever tell them that you were a cat?”

“Naw. I just wanted to play. Some of the guys get grumpy about playing with suits.” Marx walks into the den and I take a look at him, when I notice it. His suit is crumbling. “Do you think we can get a new suit just like this one?”

Brian even asks, “Don’t you want a different one?”

Marx replies, “Naw. The guys are used to ‘Mark’ [he named himself for when he’s in his suit].”

I reply, “They may not even has that same model, Marx. You know that model is kind of old.”

Marx, looking a little disappointed, says, “I know. I mean I like this suit. The way it looks. And everybody knows me, I guess,” he takes a pause. “Well, everybody talks about them at the court. I kinda …. well … you know…. um. I kinda want, to get …. a job.”

At this point I start tearing up. [I blame female hormones.] The Brians are looking at me like I’m an alien. My little kitty is growing up before my eyes. I stand to hug him and I feel the suit crumble a little. A piece falls off. He puts his hands behind his back to hide the fact, but his little paw is sticking out behind him. I gave him a low five and pushed his butt into a forward motion as a sign to get out of that suit.

Brian asked me what my expression is all about. I go into a friggin’ Seventh Heaven moment, talking about how Marx could have used the suit in a deviant manner, but he decides to be a good cat, and a good person, by just going out to play and now wanting to take on responsibilities. And that after it all, we were pretty good parents. I turned into a bubbling mess over my wine.

I awakened on the verge of motherhood tears.

And then realized I really need to have my medication changed.