I was walking through a spacious, beautiful house last night in my dream, admiring the play of light through the windows and following some sweet music that I could not quite catch. My family was around, but not with me, and the whole mood of the place was bright and happy.
I passed a couch. Gold, brocade, old-fashioned, set so that I could walk behind it and see it and the Oriental rug in front of it, and on the rug, something small and furry and awfully cute. A round-faced little creature — cat, I thought at first, but the body resolved (as bodies do in dreams) into the sinuous length of a ferret, but with a dark, sleek, uniform color. Weasel, I thought.
And had no more than thought it when the little bastard launched itself into the air with one powerful spring, bounded over the couch, and landed on me, where it proceded to tear into me with its pointy little teeth while I swatted at it and looked around for something to clobber it with and yelled through the house that the weasel was biting me. At which point I woke up.
So what the hell was that about?