racing and cat

I was rushing to get somewhere and with me, guiding me, was a fluffy ginger cat. I raced through an underground depot of sorts, navigating my way through turnstiles, tunnels and crowds of people, the cat always in front of me. I turned into a section where the traffic was thick and fast. I was alarmed to see an enormous black train off the rails, driving up the road toward me, threatening to mow me down. I rushed forward, away from the train, and a second train, as big as the first, sped around the corner, the convoy of carriages behind it swinging out as it curled around the bend. The cat and I ran past it and climbed up a steep flight of cement stairs until I reached a ticket counter. I bought a ticket and asked the attendant which station I should go to; he said number 28. We ran up another flight of stairs to a hallway where the doors leading to each station were numbered. There were about 40 stations and there seemed to be no pattern at all as to how the numbers had been allocated; 4 sat next to 39, 2 next to 13 and so on. I frantically searched for the right number and realised that the cat was waiting for me in the doorway of number 28. I ran after the cat down some stairs onto the platform and there was our train, pulling away from the station. The cat sprang on board and I ran beside the train, grabbed hold of a metal bar and hoisted myself through the doors, into the carriage. Once there, I asked a couple of people where this train was going to check that it was indeed the right one. I looked up to see the lovely fluffy cat lying down on the floor at the front of the carriage near the driver's seat. He was totally relaxed, stretched out, watching me.