The other night, I shot out of the bed like a cannonball. I went from a dead sleep to wide awake in about .8 seconds flat.
I was just sure I heard someone say “Please help me.” I remember the sound vividly. I also remember that the clock said 3:30 (a.m.).
My first instinct was to look around the room and then out in the hall. In my somewhat dazed state, I think I really felt like I was going to find some waif or forlorn maiden who needed my help.
She wasn’t there.
My second thought – as I became less dazed – is that the cry for help must’ve come from a dream. Yes, that must be it. But, as I thought about it, I really couldn’t remember that I was dreaming about anything notable.
As an aside, many of the dreams I have been able to recall over the years have been rather mundane in nature. One of my favorites to illustrate this point was the one about the time I was riding a bus and reading a newspaper. No, that’s it. Just riding. Just reading. Nothing else.
Like I said: Mundane.
But, I couldn’t recall even the most mundane mental picture from the previous half hour (or half minute). Wide awake, I went downstairs and turned on the television to help me get back ready for the second half of the evening’s sleep.
Then, the weekend ended and I fast forward to Monday morning. In the pre-dawn minutes, my morning routine brings me to the sink as I prepare to shave and brush my teeth. My sink rests right next to one of the windows that faces the wooded area that encircles the back half of our property.
From deep down in the woods, I hear that ‘cry for help’ again. This time, however, as I am awake I can tell it sounds more like wildlife than dreamlife. And, immediately I remember that a few autumns ago, we were frequently visited by a red fox. It would cry in the middle of the night. Those mournful wails sounded like a human cry for help.
And I remember again how I woke up with a fright the first time I heard it back then.
One morning, just at dawn, I let Roger the amber, striped tabby cat outside and almost immediately, I heard the fox wail. I went out on to our screened-in porch that morning and there we were – the three of us – in a triangle: me on the porch, Roger in the back yard and Mr. Fox at the edge of the woods. I looked at Fox. He looked at Roger. Roger looked at me. And then, like a blazing streak of greased lightning, he sprinted up the yard, up the steps, onto the porch and back into the house.
Actually, Rog has been a bit more judicious about his comings and goings since those fox days.
And now, I suspect, we may be experiencing the return of Mr. Fox. At any rate, that is something explainable, whereas what I felt at 3:30 a.m. the other day was really inexplicable.
JG
Originally posted 9/20/2011
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