Shmogg is getting old. He's got the 'old cat' dimple in his haunches, even
though there's still a bit of an udder down below. He spends most of his day
sleeping, and has no interest whatsoever in the red greebling. Compared to
IBKFergus' manic behaviour, he's pretty much a stationary object, only
moving when its potty time, food time or bed time. There has been no b*st*rd
c*t trick for a long long time, and I've started to think that this year
might be Shmogg's last with us on the physical plain. But, bless his heart,
no matter what else has happened in the day, he still finds hte energy to
jump up onto my bed and purr me to sleep each night.

As some of you might already know, we're having difficulty with The Yowlet.
For various reasons, he's decided that the only place to sleep is with one
of his parents in their bed, and that his cot is Evil Incarnate (I thought
that was IBKFergus, but Cary sees the world differently). While Cary still
gets a perfectly good night's sleep, he also tosses and turns and thrashes
and thumps and kicks and punches and - having received the best training in
all things Cat - can expand to take up the whole of the queen sized bed,
commandeer the blankets and can still to kidnap every single pillow
available in the house whilst doign so. As can well be imagined, the adults
of this household are suffering chronic sleep deprivation and are Not Happy
Campers.

It is therefore vitally important that whoever doesn't have the thrashing
horror, I mean our beloved son, in their bed, gets the best night's sleep
they can, because they'll be having the human washing machine, I mean Cary,
in their beds the next night.

Blissfully, it was my turn to have a relatively peaceful night's sleep last
night. By relatively, I mean that I, being the Mum, am still biologically
wired to wake up every time I here the Wrecker of Beds, I mean, The Yowlet,
cry, but don't also have the pleasure of being kicked in the kidneys or
having the giddy sensation of my head crashing down into the space that my
pillow was occupying moments before, or - my favourite - little fingers
exploring my cranial cavities in their sleep.

Bt something was wrong. Usually, when its my turn to get the undisturbed
sleeping space, I'm asleep before I've lifted my toes off the floor (give or
take a few milliseconds). But last night, sleep did not happen easily. I too
tossed and turned, thrashed and kicked, and if there were kidneys to kick
and noses to poke, I would have done so too. Things were definitely Not
Right. Despite being desperately tired, I couldn't' sleep because there
wasn't a fresh and replenishing supply of cat dander in my nostrils. In
other words, Shmogg hadn't come to bed as usual.

Now I'm the first to admit that my thought processes don't run quite
straight in the dead of night. After all, if they were normal, the whole
Mothership incident wouldn't have occurred, and I wouldn't have spider
nightmares (which always keep Joel on his toes) either. But it was dark, I
have been chronically sleep deprived over the last month or so, and well,
there wasn't a cat on my bed to soothe my jangled nerves.

My thoughts floated back to earlier that day when I realised Shmogg was not
just looking mature but was noticeably *old* compared to IBKFergus. My mind
tottered around a bit, smelled a few mental flowers and then suddenly
remembered Shmogg desperately trying to sneak out that afternoon. Shmogg
hasn't had so much interest in The Out recently, and I've become lax on my
door keeping, but even so, his quest to be in the Out was quite out of
character. Instead of just taking the opportunity to dart out through my
legs when it presented itself, this time he was waiting at the door,
scheming. This wasn't an oppurtunistic dash, he really *wanted* to go out.
He couldn't be dissuaded, and its only the laws of physics that prevented
him actually passing through leg bone that eventually foiled his escapistry.
But instead of returning to his normal catly business, he then went straight
to the back door and tried to ooze himself through the grates. He really
really REALLY wanted to be in the Out.

Of course, I was worried by that time, so I got out of bed and had to search
the house for him. He was hiding in IBKFergus' box, unde the computer table.
Its has been IBKLFergus' box ever since she had claimed it in the
unmistakable way of cats; she'd peed in it several times. Shmogg was jammed
into his box that was only just big enough for IBKFergus, hunkered down, not
moving. I called to him. He opened his eyes, but didn't move. I stretched
out my hand, calling again. His ears swivelled, and he looked at me, but
still entirely failed to get out of the box and come to me - very unlike
him.

And at that point, my lack-of-sleep-addled brain put the escape attempt, the
lack of interest in dinner (nothing terribly unusual about that in itself,
stupid slave I am occasionally serves up pure poison instead of the gourmet
cat food that comes up out the very same can the feed before), the lack of
Shmogg upon my bed for the first time in nearly 6 years, him crammed into
another cat's well-marked box, and him not coming even to an outstretched
hand together and came to a horrid, inconceivable conclusion..

Didn't want dinner.old cat.cats run away to die.. Shmogg not on my bed at
all..won't even move..

I crammed myself under the table, and, through tears, told my dear sweet
Shmogg that I loved him very much, that he'd been a good cat, and that it
was OK if he had to go. I sat there, under the table, shivering (It was a
cool night and I hadn't put my robe on), getting cramps from being under the
table in an awkward spot, crying quietly, stoking my kitty, trying to burn
into my brain the feel of his coat, the sound of his purr, the loving look
in his eyes, because quite clearly this was the last time I'd see him alive.

Shmogg fel asleep. The house was quiet. I was cold, and cramped, and there
was nothing else to do but let Shmogg take his leave in his own good time.

I took myself back to bed, the bed without a cat, and cried myself to sleep.

$)(%((&*$@#&**!!!!

I've never been so happy to wake up with whiskers in my sinuses and paw
prints in my bladder.

Shmogg may have slowed down in his old age, but he hasn't forgotten how to
pull a classic B*st*rd C*t trick.

B*st*rd C*t!

Yowie