Oddly enough after talking and reading about Lissa's recent gun dream, I had one myself Saturday morning.
There was no bad guy, there was no shooting - but, oh, it was a nightmare.
See, somehow the laws had changed and each individual round of ammunition had to be locked up. A box of ammo came with a set of lilliputian keys (all unnumbered of course) because each cartridge was required to have a black plastic cage-like device on it and each device required a tiny key of its very own.
A cathartic release of my fear of stricter gun laws, my brain fretting that it's been months since I've seen a box of ammunition in a caliber that I actually shoot, or purely a delirious side effect from the head cold that I've been fighting?
I woke up with a start. Eloise the cat was standing on my chest, one threatening paw pressed against my throat - she wanted her breakfast.
"Mike." I said sleepily. "I had a gun dream." I mumbled the fuzzy details before they disappeared in my wakefulness.
Getting up to tend to the hungry cat, Mike seemed to think that something like that wasn't too outlandish. "Just look at California," he said.