First Footer, First Nightmare

I started the year with a nightmare.  And actually a timely New Year's Eve nightmare.  The first person through your door after midnight determines your luck for the year.  Or something like that.  Details are scarce for me.  I know that it's best to have a dark-haired man be your first-footer.  That's why Grannie like my father.  Hmmm.  Sounds to me now like she didn't much like him for anything else!  Anyhow, that's all I know about first footing.

I received a few such facts during my childhood, summed up in one sentence each -- no elaboration, no questions.  I've been thinking about this lately in relation to Grannie and wondering why she never taught me more.  Hogmanay, Robbie Burns night, whatever.  It came to me that Grannie seldom invited us to her apartment for dinner (she came to us) while my other grandparents went the whole Sunday-roastbeef-Yorkshire-pudding route.  Could Grannie cook?  Had she had a housekeeper to do it for her?  She pickled things.  Made pickles and relish.  That's a fact told by my mother.  Just thinking that this might explain my mother's lack of interest in cooking or teaching it to me.

Back to my nightmare.  I opened the door and a huge cat was trying to get in.  It was all grey, had no tail and was almost as large as a lion or tiger.  Much bigger than the usual cat.  I gasped and slammed the door shut -- and woke up gasping and shaking.  Horrible.