Once I had a cat.
His name was Biscuit.
He was big and black and had a wonky tail that was shaped like a question mark.
He would sit at the foot of my bed as I slept, and catch the bad dreams and gobble them up.
Sometimes he let a bad dream get through, he didn't mean to.
When
I woke up from a bad dream, he'd come up to me and rub his head against
my face as if to say “I'm sorry. I missed that one. I'll try harder next
time.”
But it didn't matter.
He used to eat lots and lots.
That's because catching bad dreams is a hard job.
He needed the energy.
One day he went from us.
He was hit by a car.
Mum said that he's in heaven now.
But I know that's not true.
He's still at the foot of my bed.
And he's even better at catching bad dreams than before.
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