Behind Closed Eyes

I had been asleep for some time before realizing
Ubu, my cat, was astonishingly pregnant and in need of help.
My local EMT was there, wielding both a small knife and
a disconcerting air of nonchalance.
In my hands the cat's body had miraculously transformed into a white plastic squeeze bottle and,
"Cut here," I said,
"on the seam of the label where it won't hurt as much."
But no.
Slash.  Slash.  Like a V.
Out they came, not moving,
looking like nothing more than Petit Fours composed of layers of raw meat and white bread.
I nudged one with a finger and it moved, as if pulled by a string,
toward my once more black and furry cat who cleverly cleaned them all
down to the size and shape of ladybugs.

Why does my subconscious mind not find this strange?

And why do I remember it with unbelievable clarity when
other dreams merely play in the background, like a radio left on in another room?

What lesson is here I need to know?
Is it that things are not how they appear,
or merely an acknowledgment of the absurdity lurking just below the surface.
Behind closed eyes.