Dreams are funny

I think I dreamed a memory last night–it was the strangest thing.  If that’s even possible.  But it was very clear and detailed.  I think I was 6 or 7 in the dream, and I woke up in the middle of the night and went into the kitchen.  My dad was sitting there in a chair, with my mom’s desk light on, holding my brother’s bb gun.

“What do you need?” he asked me.

I needed lots of things, but all I wanted was a drink of water.  “I’m thirsty,” I said.

“Get your drink,” he said. “But be quiet.”

“Why do you have Timmy’s gun?” I asked him.

“Mice,” he said.  “They’ve been leaving shit pellets under the sink. And on the floor over there by the phone.”

“Don’t we have mousetraps?” I asked.

“Well, son, we do.  But I can’t shoot them in the cupboard.”

“Oh, OK.” I said.  I got a small glass of orange juice and drank it standing by the sink.

“You’re really going to shoot them?” I asked.

“I hope so,” he growled.

“Ok, then.” I said.  “I’m going back to bed.”

I wonder if he got them?  Can’t remember that part.  I know my dad hated mice, though.

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