I admit, I’m of those cats who sleeps in what I call a “Tower of Power” – a six-foot, two-story, beige-carpeted condo with a scratchpad serving as a ground-level garage. When I’m snoozing on the top level, I feel like I’m in command of everything – the feline equivalent of being Queen of the Mountain where everyone has to play by my rules.
But last night I drifted off early and dreamed that I won the lottery, and that my well-worn sleeping space had transformed into a luxuriant magic carpet glowing in shades of apricot and tangerines. It reminded me of what I read in the morning paper -- that despite the soft economy, my local kingdom is “awash with the wealthy” who have discretionary funds to buy yachts and second homes.
I don’t begrudge the affluent. But I was really glad to wake up in my own comfortable bed.
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