The dog in the night

And they sang 'You're asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!--
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince-pies".
--James Whitcomb Riley

I woke up last night, in the wee hours of the morning.  The cats were stirring and rearranging themselves on my bed.  My cats and I have negotiated certain agreements -- they have agreed to lie wherever they choose on my bed and I, on my part, will attempt to lie in such a way as not to disturb them.

I gradually realized, however, that not just the cats and I were in the darkened room.  And no, it wasn't the somewhat usual mouse.  Nor was it -- as related in an earlier post -- a bat.  There was a large mammal in the inky background -- it seemed like a St. Bernard dog, but more formless, almost like a small bear.

The room was very dark, with just a little filtered light from the exterior, so all I could see was the vague shape of the animal.  It wasn't threatening me.  It was making no noise.  It was just moving around in the background, some distance from the bed.  I wasn't exactly frightened -- I was more puzzled.  The cats remained restless, but not freaked out -- and my cats generally freak out at anything new that's as large as a moth.  The monster kept moving around the bed. 

Suddenly, it leaped over the bed, from one side to the other.  Soundlessly.  Gracefully, or as gracefully as a bear-like dog could comport itself.  Far enough toward the foot of the bed that it didn't come close to touching me.

Well, that was weird.  And then my vision of cats and dog alike was blotted out by a fog-like cloud of feathers or dust or odd particles that swooshed and swirled across my vision, moving as though somehow alive.  It died out after a few seconds, and the cats and dog were again barely detectable.

I honestly couldn't figure out what was going on, but I decided to get to the bottom of it.  The switch for the overhead light was just a few steps from my bed.  I'd just get up and ....  But I couldn't move, or at least I couldn't move enough.  I was weighted down, as though I were covered by a huge number of blankets.  But I wasn't.  I could clearly feel that I was covered only by the single blanket I had gone to bed with.

The mysterious black cloud swirled about me one or two more times, its intentions -- and it seemed to have conscious intent -- unknown.

The dog was edging toward the door.  That made me furious.  "I'm going to miss out seeing this dog in the light, just because I'm too weak or too lazy to get up and flip the switch."  That's what I told myself, in pretty much exactly those words.  I was struggling with every ounce of my strength. 

The dog was out in the hall by now, and I heard him go down the stairs.  Finally, my legs began functioning, and I was able to reach the light switch.  The cats were gone.  My struggles with the blanket had apparently been too irritating for my faithless felines.  And of course there was no huge hound to be seen.

A couple of years ago, I wrote a post in this blog entitled "Petrified."  I explained the phenomenon of "sleep paralysis." The victim awakes, finding himself caught in a state between the awareness of being awake and the muscular paralysis of REM sleep.  It can be terrifying, or humorous, or -- as it usually is with me -- just immensely exhausting and frustrating. 

Even after I finally got the blasted light turned on and I was fully awake, it took a moment or two to convince myself that there had been no giant dog, no animated, swirling mass of black feathers.  It was all the result of yet another encounter between my wakened vision and my still dreaming brain.

I'd still like to see that dog. The cats suggest they would just as soon not.