If I drew cartoons for the New Yorker—in my sleep edition

So I used to do this recurring thing on Red Eye and also on this blog where I’d mention cartoons I’d draw if I drew cartoons for the New Yorker. They were always kind of purposefully lame with perhaps a wee ribbon of clever in them although really, there was no guarantee of clever. If there was a clever surprise in there you would feel fortunate but realize it was nothing to depend on. Sort of like when the results of any sort of blood test come back and you find out that you’re not dying, if you happen to be a hypochondriac which I’m not but I’ve known a lot of them, some of whom are still alive.

Anyway, I woke up this morning with the following in my head. It’s only semi-amusing if you realize that this was dream logic—it makes little sense in waking life.

Here is the cartoon.

I’m on a corner. A cat is, well, I just realized the cat is positioned “catty corner” (ugh, sometimes my dream brain is so cliche) and the cat has its paw extended as if giving me the right of way. The caption is, “And they say feline chivalry is dead.”