Ah, Yowie, I've always loved your talented writing and your tale here is
just exceptional -- loved it, loved it, loved it!
Thank you!
Christine (give that Shmoggleberry some scritches from me!)
"Yowie" wrote in message
...
Cats are curious creatures, in both senses of the word. For the 14 or so
years that I've known Shmoggleberry, he's had a phobia of bare skin
against
his fur. Well, not a *phobia* because obviously he likes a good
scritching,
and he has no problem with bare skin next to his fur if his fangs are
being
hypodermically inserted at the same time. But he simply won't entertain
the
thought of settling himself down for a good purr session when in contact
with even the merest hint of bare skin.

This of course makes summer highly amusing, particularly when Shmogg goes
through his "lap cat" phase. He'll saunter down from the back of the
lounge,
give me the "present lap, mere human!" look, and climb upon my legs. He's
often kind enough to retract his claws too.

Now, in winter, I've often got a blanket over my legs, and even if I don't
I'm wearing long pants (I don't do skirts) so His Majesty has somewhere
suitably non-skinlike to settle. But in summer, I usually wear shorts.

Now Shmogg isn't entirely stupid, but his little kitty brain isn't wired
like a human's. In the same sort of cat logic that dictates that if the
weather is bad out the back door, one ought to try the front door, Shmogg
doesn't just abandon the thought of sitting on my lap because there's the
dreaded Bare Skin where a nice cosy cat napping place ought to be. No,
that
would be human thinking. What he can feel is the fabric of my shorts. It
may
not be covering the whole of my legs, but its there, and its on my lap.
Using his superior thought processes and amazing metamorphosing way, he
tries to shrink himself from over 6kg of oafish cat into a slither of his
former self - a sliver the right sort of shape and size to be able to sit
on
the sliver of shorts fabric that is on my lap.

Proof that cats do not obey the standard laws of physics is that he
usually
manages to actually do it. This may or may not have anything to do with
the
particularly malleability of my stomach (even more malleable now I've had
Cary) but all 6kg of cat, including a quite generous udder, err, kibble
storage device, manages to shift the bulk of itself into the 4th
dimension,
leaving only the smallest amount of himself actually in the same plane as
my
shorts. Sure, some fur may be tickling my bare (and allergic) legs, but
thats because fur sticks out, but the bulk of him, despite all possible
logic and reason, seems to manage to balance precariously on that small
strip of fabric that make up the legs of my shorts.

However, even his multi-dimensional phasing capabilities don't always make
up for his kitty brain. Because although cunning, shrewd, and quite
capable
of planning and executing the most intricate and incredibly subtle
b*st*rd
c*t tricks of ever increasing complexity, the Great Shmogg Brain cannot
always over come his more basic at traits. Despite all reasoning, all
logic,
all incredibly well developed chutzpah, he cannot always quite overcome
the
fact, that he is, at the very core of his being, tucked away under layers
of
Cool and Suave, in that secret pocket of his heart, actually still a
kittycat. The phrase "curious as a cat" wasn't coined for nothing

Long ago, I discovered I really didn't enjoy having my sleepwear forming
intricate knots in the small of my back in the dead of night. Nor did I
like
it balling up and poking me inthe kidneys, or it sneaking up my torso and
trying to strangle me, or, the worst of all, trying to split me in two.
Various forms of nightwear were tried and rejected, leaving me to conclude
that the only suitable sleepwear, if needed at all, were bra and briefs.
Therefore, under the covers, in the cover of darkness, there still
lies....
bare skin.

Shmogg is now a regular inhabitant of my bed. Its warm, comfortable, away
from the baby when the baby is making noise, and with the human with the
good scritching fingers when the baby is quiet. Shmogg jumps up onto the
bed
only a few moments after I've retired for the night, and I'm often
rewarded
for scratching the beast with sleep-inducing purrs. But sometimes, I make
the mistake of having formed a cave with my blankets, and we all know
about
caves and cats. Even a stunningly smart cat who knows the wily ways of
even
the trickiest of humans cannot resist The Cave of Doom, whether that
glorious cavern be made or ancient rock & stone, or be simply a
coincidence
formed out of a discarded grocery bag. No Great Gaping Grotto can go
unexplored by any Fearless Fighting Feline, even if the cat may, in some
other plane of existence, know that its a mere sheet, plastic bag, or
other
thoroughly mundane day to day object. If its shape makes a suitably
concave
area, space and time conspire against the cat, turning something that only
topographers would find mildly interesting into a Den, a Lair, a catly
Place
of Power where lions (in the shapes of small domestic moggies) can enjoy
the
acoustics of their wild and unassuaged roar. (mew!)

Shmogg is instantly attracted. All thoughts of settling down for a good
scritching before retiring for the night go out the window, or more
correctly, into the Tunnel of Mystery. With trepidation, he investigates
the
outer rim, making sure that the dreaded Cave Monster of Doom is not in
residence (saying that the entrance is made of doona, has always been made
of doona, and has been the same darn doona for the last 8 years is just a
tad unfair). Once he is sure that his Dignity and other less important
aspects of Cathood are not in mortal danger, he slinks in, wary and alert.
Inside the cave it is warm and dark and soft and comfortable. Its a perfec
t
kitty hideout. Except of course for the deep dark secret that the mean old
hoomin is keeping from overly curious kittycats.

Thinking he has finally found the perfect lair, he curls up in the
convenient cat-sized curve made from the angle of my legs and stomach when
curled into the semi-fetal position. He closes his eyes, tucks the paws in
and begins to purr like a cat who has finally found heaven on earth. This
is
the most perfect place, with his slave, all warm and dry, safe from the
outside world, a mighty cave cat. The purrs are incredible, and although
utterly soporific, I can't fall asleep. I am waiting, you see, for the
realisation to hit; I am waiting for the laws of Skin Phobia and Cave
Irresistibility to clash.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dear old Shmogg under the covers, purring
his
little heart out. He may be a b*st*rd c*t, but he's my b*st*rd c*t and
we've
been through alot together. That he still wants to curl up with me and
bless
me with his purrs says alot about our relationship I think, and I'll put
up
with all his B*st*rd C*t tricks, the scratches, the guerrilla warfare on
my
ankles and the incredible stench of the litterbox for this simple
pleasure,
and I suspect he's prepared to put up with generally being ignored for the
screaming drooling one (Cary) and the smelly drooling one (Fluffy) just
for
the nightly chin scritch and my company whilst we both travel to the land
of
Nod. Its in these pleasant, purry times that we both know that Shtoopid
Hoomin truly loves B*st*rd Cat and that despite all appearances to the
contrary there is a soft spot in the heart of the B*st*rd C*t for his
lowly
slave.

Still, nothing lasts forever and the balance inexorably shifts from Cave
Irrisistability back to Skin Phobia. The purring ceases. The tension
mounts.
The purring, quietens, then halts altogether. In the silence, the space
time
continuum creaks under the strain as the equilibrium of Shmogg's universe
shifts. Suddenly, what was the perfect burrow for such a Supreme Being
seems
to be suspiciously similar to cheapish linen, and the wonderful central
heating seems to be turning into something familiar...*far* too familiar.
Perhaps he sniffs once to confirm, or perhaps his specialised kitty senses
just *know*, but the Legendary Lion's Lair switches back to a mere tunnel
under the doona, and oh my, is that? Oh god, oh no! Its... Argggh! Its *
BARE SKIN *!!!!!!!

Of course, snuggling contentedly against a nice, warm, comfortably small
area of Bare Skin is not the same as skidding over acres and acres of the
stuff. With one's claws out. Without any regard * whatsoever * of the
various organs and nerve endings that happen to be attached to said skin.
Or, indeed, the quiet contented slumber of the shtoopid hoomin that
happens
to be quite fond of all that skin, nerve endings and various vital organs
that are being trampled at high speed by a freaked out cat doing his
impression of a bat out of hell. Or maybe that should be cat out of doona.

Whilst he won't go back under the doona that night once he's calmed down,
licked himself a few times, and smacked me about for laughing at him so
much
(after I've finished swearing at him, of course) what I entirely fail to
understand is that Shmoggleberry, emeritus b*st*rd c*t, full of sneak and
spite, capable of thinking up ever more bizarre and twisted ways to
psychologically torture me, who can tell the time and who can train 3
hoomins and one d*g, a cat who is of world renown intellect and aptitude,
can fall for the same damn trick every single night.

Shtoopid cat.

Yowie



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