Jet lag continues.

I laughed at the devil yesterday, and for that he visited me during my two hours of sleep.

In my dream, I become convinced that a black cat living with me is the host of Satan. I have no proof, but I snap its neck anyway. While I look for a spade to bury the corpse, the beast returns to life, twice as large and four times as mean. No matter what I do—and I try everything: decapitation, microwave oven, drowning in the kitchen sink—the cat comes back, ever more sulphurous and enraged.

I wake up with the sheets twisted around my neck like thick rope. Thunder is shaking my apartment. I am seriously freaked out.

As I gradually calm down, I begin to suspect that yesterday’s auspicious date pollinated a long-suppressed memory from last July, of cat-sitting. Except cat-sitting was worse.