3 A.M.

Never bearing children, Cassandra took to nurturing animals. From the most common domestic companions such as dogs, cats, birds, fish and rabbits, to the more exotic likes of guinea pigs, opossums and even a seagull she had a place in her heart and home for each. An early riser, her morning routine was cleaning cages, walking dogs, feeding and refreshing water bowls and if necessary taking in injured wildlife. Everyone knew her to be the one who couldn't say no and her voicemail was full each morning with word of mouth callers asking her to take in a fledgling found wounded, an abandoned baby bunny, even chickens which had fallen off trucks headed to the slaughter house. She accepted donations of various necessities such as items to make special formulas required to meet the various animals nutritional needs. For twenty years she had been the queen bee of her own hive. She often had round the clockers, that is, wildlife so young they needed feedings every hour to hour and a half. It was an early summer night when the dreams began to grow. Grow in that they became more and more detailed, seemingly longer each night to the point she was afraid to sleep at all. Yet, inevitably she nodded off at midnight only to wake at 3 a.m. screaming, crying, jumping out of bed even running around the house and farm yard to check that all of her critters were safe.

The dream was her worst nightmare. Each night a slight variation was made in that it starred a different pair of animals suffering, some in reality were well and alive or others whom had died years ago of natural causes. Behind her closed lids the dream festered a panic that caused her to sweat and become so fitful that her devoted dog, Iggy, an already anxious enough, red, miniature dachshund would begin to bark trying to wake her to no avail. The scenario was quite basic; she would be away from the farm having fun, time for herself without a care in the world then suddenly remember she had animals which depended on her to stay alive. She'd rush into her house and find birds dead in their cages, dehydrated and dying cats, guinea pigs taking their last breath and fish bellied up. She would try to revive them over and over using every acute care trick in the proverbial book but it would always be too late. She was always crying, rather sobbing wildly repeating, "How could I?" when she woke. She became obsessed during waking hours of making rounds to each and every animal in her care, double, triple, quadruple checking they all had water and food. She began to grow thinner herself and with so little quality sleep she became agitated, snappy at complete strangers when doing errands, not bathing, her black hair became greasy and unkempt hanging long over her bony white shoulders. The phone kept ringing and she continued to take in more animals despite her weariness. Volunteers dropped off food now, not only for the animals but to her which she simply fed to the chickens or dogs. She made pots upon pots of coffee, did jumping jacks to stay alert yet when midnight came she'd inevitably nod off again only to wake exactly at 3 a.m. screaming, "How could I?"

Word got out as it generally does when something good has gone sour. Whispers that Cassandra, the animal hoarder was batty at best, smelled like a pig stall and was wasting away like a starved, feral dog. The calls stopped coming in and Cassandra was somewhat relieved as she was in over her head. Her need to enjoy life and learn from this self inflicted burden was not clear to her despite the nightmare's repetition. Was it a warning? A premonition? To others it was obvious that never having children she'd fulfilled her desire to care, to hold and love by acquiring her miniature zoo. Yet, unlike parents of human babies, she never took a date night, went to a film or had time for a real life friend to have dinner with. With sunken eyes, red and burning, she checked the locks on the barn gates, doubled the portions at mealtime for all animals and added extra access to water. This, let's say, "routine" of sleeping from midnight to 3 a.m. began to affect her waking hours, causing her to let things slide past her. Iggy was becoming overweight for his size; heavy dachshunds get severe spine issues causing them pain. Litter boxes for her lot of approximately twenty cats began a stench so magnified it permeated every corner of the old house. The cats were urinating where they pleased, clawing up the sofa and the few not spayed or neutered were reproducing. Kittens were born, finches hatched their offspring successfully creating overcrowded cages; Cassandra had long stopped collecting the hens eggs which she once gave away to volunteers. The volunteers had rarely been stopping by now for some reason. At the feed store in her rural town the owner once quite chatty just rang up her large purchases of chicken feed, hay, bird seed, dog and cat food and shook his head as if he were displeased with something. Cassandra gave nothing but her animals much thought, well, and the bloody reoccurring nightmare pestered her. She had now tried setting an alarm clock to wake her at 2.30 a.m. so as to bypass dreaming all together. She was never able to abort the timing so gave up by bargaining with her psyche, "it is just a dream, right?" She began to go back to sleep after her 3 a.m. fright and Iggy, too, slept more and more. He was much too fat to jump up on the bed now and nestled in her growing pile of dirty clothing. She began to rise later then before, making her rounds at 10 a.m. for the outside animals rather than 6 a.m.; she put large bowls of dog chow on the floor, enough for a week and dishes with remainders of dried up canned cat food grew putrid. She'd just put down more cans. Her once well run home for helpless creatures, God's smallest wonders, those who needed rescuing, baths, food, formulas and tender, loving care had become a dilapidated, stinky shadow of it's once well recognized source of respite.

As small towns are, Cassandra's condition was noted. Was she mentally ill? At 3 a.m. on a Monday she woke screaming, "How could I?" and rolled over to sleep again. At 10 a.m. there was a pounding on her door. A volunteer? A baby bird needing formula? Two women in beige jumpsuits asked to come in. They were from the animal welfare department. They wanted to inspect her property and house for quality of care. Cassandra sat on her sofa covered in sheds of cat hair, vomited fur balls and on the stained yellow carpet were several dead mice. She stared at the floor faintly hearing gasps and sighs from the women in other rooms of the house. They approached her solemnly, one woman spoke, "Due to overcrowding and lack of appropriate hygienic quarters we are confiscating all animals and fining you 5000 dollars. You will not be allowed to have any animals in the future." Cassandra howled like a wounded hound, her guttural bawling was the likes of a mother who has been told her children were dead and it went on and on and on. She was yelling something, the women tried to understand what she was screeching. One turned to the other and said, I think she is saying, "How could I?".