So after showing my mom that a house cat isn't at all unpleasant, my
parents volunteered to cat sit again for us. Only in the meantime, we
had acquired Smokey in a clandestine nighttime operation that involved
a military security chief writing me a leave pass for the purpose of
getting Smokey safely off base (where he lived feral) and into my
apartment.  I had to tell Mom that she couldn't pick up the cat, it
would have to be the catS plural.

Two weeks later, my contract ended and DP and I were off to the East
Coast.  My parents were thrilled to have Nox back, but rather less
than enthused about Smokey.  "You CAN'T do that to Nox--bringing in a
TOM!  and isn't he that FERAL one from the base?"  I assured them that
in his two weeks indoors, Smokey had proved he could use a litterbox
and be goodboy, but they werent' convinced.

Smokey shrieked for five hours as my parents drove him and Nox to
their house until his voice gave out.  They arrived there shortly
thereafter.  Nox spent the evening with my parents.  Smokey spent the
evening hiding under my old bed.

But then Smokey started luv-buggin'....this is the cat who survived by
begging when he couldn't catch prey.  Oozing schmoozing over everyone
the second they sat down, weaving between legs, dripping luv while
making wheezing heavy-breathing noises that are as close as he can
manage to a purr.  You can only deny that so long, especially when
Smokey clearly worships Those Who Bring Food while Nox barely
disguises her contempt for non-felines.

My dad liked to play golf-ball with Nox.  Smokey didn't know how to
play.  My dad taught him, and then had to listen to Smokey knocking
golf balls down the staircase in the middle of the night.

Smokey hoovered his food at an insane rate, since he was
undernourished and recovering from his worm infestation.  Poor boy.
He was as good as I claimed, save for his pestering attempts to lick,
jump on, or otherwise play with Nocturne, who only wanted peace,
quiet, and his dismembered body served up on a silver platter.  But
even his races about the house in pursuit of Nox made my parents more
amused than angry, even when they knocked over a clock and broke it.

Getting Smokey back was a story on its own--that earned him the
nickname "The Poopster."

--Fil