disgruntled-looking lions in Chinatown (courtesy Mr. W)
There were lots of lions on our trip to SF last weekend. It started with the National Geographic magazine that Mr. W bought at the airport, which features the magazine’s 100 favorite or best photos they’d ever had in print. There was a beautiful photo of a male lion walking, and the photographer had written that the lion was majestic, powerful and completely indifferent to him. Typical cat. Looking at that photo, I wanted to sink my hand into the dense lion mane, touch a fingertip to the flame-shaped tuft of fur at the tip of his tail. Of course there were stone lions all over Chinatown, guarding front doors, keeping the evil spirits out. We had also seen a framed closeup painting or photo of a lion’s face somewhere, and I remember saying I wanted a lion. Riding to work on a lion would ensure that nobody messed with me. Talk crap behind my back? My lion will eat you. Or at least bat you around. It’s funny to imagine some catty chick giving me the once-over and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, this huge paw smacks her upside the head.

One morning last weekend I woke up from a dream that I was hanging out with lions, playing with one’s gigantic paw, curling up against another one in a vast plain. When I opened my eyes I was in the San Francisco hotel room with an already-awake Mr. W. “I dreamt I had a lion,” I said sleepily, still disoriented and rather disappointed that there was no lion next to me. He smiled his boyish dimpled smile and said, “Well, how about a Leo?” I’ll take it.