Shmogg is a clever and cunning creature. Each Bastard Cat trick is bigger and better than the last, to the point I thought he couldn't better himself. Also being psychic he *knew* I thought he couldn't come up with a better one, and apparently stopped trying, as if to lull me into a sense of security. Of course it worked. My merely human brain could never comprehend the subtle convolutions, the feints within feints of the incredible kitty mind.

Shmogg was still being overly generous with his Death Stares, mostly directed at Joel and Fluffy, but seemed to be reasonably content ruining my furniture and cleaning bits of dog-face out of his claws. Fluffy was happy, Joel was happy, I was blissfully, ignorantly, happy. If I was cat, I would probably have purred. Actually, no, if I was a cat, I would have known Something Was Up. So I'll say if I was a dog, I would have wagged. Fluffy is a happy dog and she's always wagging.

So I spent my contented life inwardly wagging, loving and being loved by my little family, idly wondering why The Powers That Be had suddenly decided to shine down upon me.

I can only conclude that Karma really does exist. And I hate it.

When all was doing well, I got my biannual flu. I get one at the onset of summer, and one at the onset of winter. I had a shopping bag next to my bed filled with used tissues, an interesting rainbow collection of various pills and the requisite vile tasting cough medicine. Joel was doing his utmost to make me feel better, which in his case involved bringing Shmogg to my bed, keeping Fluffy out of my way, and bringing me hot drinks every so often. He has learnt not to engage me in conversation, because, depending on where the flu has hit, I either have the demeanour of Dalek, or have delusions, or mostly both. I tend to get very upset when he can't see the faeries at the bottom of my bed, or refuses to take the bears for their afternoon walk. Its best for him to deliver cat and tea, give me a quick kiss and skedaddle before I ask him to tell the elephants under my bed to be quiet, I'm trying to read.

Thus, I neither in a good mood or reality when I wandered off to the loo. To give him his dues, Shmogg was had been doing his level best to purr me back to health while I lay there, all feverish, and therefore continued to do his catly duty by accompanying me to the bathroom. It was about dawn, and there was enough light to see what I was doing, even though by now I don't really need a lot of light to do what had to be done.

Sitting there, trying to work out whether I was shivering because I was cold or hot or was just shaky, I noticed a dark blob in the corner. The brain, at this point, didn't care. It eventually figured out that the shivering is due to being cold, and although I knew that in under 5 minutes hence, I'll feel terribly hot, all I could think of was to get back into the comfort of the warm covers. Black blob could be a bit of dog detritus, dust or delusion, I did not care. If I could get Joel to go to the loo for me, I would.

Shmogg did his standard reconnitoire of the smallest room, but instead of climbing onto my underwear for a good scritch, he looked more intently at the corner. He does his Halloween Cat, and hisses at the blob.

Now, I think I'm smart, I have seen this before. This is the Bastard Cat trick designed to fool me into thinking that there is a huge spider in my toilet. Well, Bastard Cat, I may be stupid, but I won't fall for the same trick twice. Hiss and Halloween all you want, it won't work. I mentally shrug my shoulders and giggle to myself. Its a good feeling to outsmart a cat, especially Bastard Cat.

But the blob moved. During the flu, I have periods of lucidity where I know the green leprechauns doing a jig on the ceiling are an actual hallucination. They don't go away, but I can enjoy the spectacle without being concerned because I *know* that its just the fever. So I am still not overly concerned about the blob. Blob can move, cat can be a Bastard, Vicky will just go back to her nice warm - no wait - cool bed and go back to her strange fever dreams.

Blob gets bigger. Blob sort of stands up. Bastard cat starts blatting and chasing, all lots of fun. This takes a while to filter in. Most of the brain is otherwise occupied with the furry green anteaters between my toes, so Reality (TM) has to take the scenic route through the brain. I think perhaps that it may be prudent to turn the light on, just to get a better idea what sort of strange delusion the cat is playing with.

Flick.

Blob comes into crystal clear view, as all the leprechauns, anteaters, pixies, elephants and other illusions immediately disappear. Shmogg is happily beating up a *huge* funnelweb spider, one of the deadliest and most aggressive spiders in the whole world. Life is absolutely crystal clear to me now. My feet withdraw strategically from the floor, while the adrenalin immediately clears my head and nasal passages. Thankfully the other orifices had been already cleared, otherwise the adrenalin may have acted on them as well. The funnelweb had reared up and was threatening to strike.

At the top of my lunges, passed the laryngitis, I scream, "CAT!!!!!". Shmogg doesn't even blink. Spider starts to move, trying to find the best spot to battle the grey beast that had disturbed its slumber. "For f*ck's sake, cat, leave it alone!!!!!".

I have always laughed at those cartoon women who jump on the chair and scream when they see a mouse. I am not proud to say that I did exactly the same thing, but was standing on the toilet instead, beat up ol' flannel nightie pulled up away from the ground. I have no idea how my previously aching and lethargic body went from sitting to standing on one toe in an instant, but fear is an incredible thing.

Now I had a problem. Spider and Shmogg were doing battle behind the door. If I wanted to open the door to make a strategic retreat, it would bring the funnelweb closer to me. Being on the loo seconds previously, I didn't have any particularly good weapons on hand, and wasn't prepared to beat the thing to death with my bare hands. I screamed at the top of my lungs, not caring or even thinking about what Joel, or the neighbours, or the people in Melbourne may think about a woman's scream of imminent death at 5am

Honestly, I have no idea how I got out. Seriously. I have no memory whatsoever of leaving the toilet. I can only surmise that I made one of those death-defying leaps that would be impossible to make unless under extreme duress. But I made it back from the kitchen with a full can of insect spray, and drowned the f*cker with every single droplet that the can held, and did it ever put up as fight as I drowned it in poison.

As the last droplets were coming out of the can, Joel came out of his room, rubbing his eyes. "What the hell was that all about?"

Its a funny thing, as soon as I realised that it was all over, I collapsed into a crying pathetic heap. Thankfully Joel can do that Big Strong Man, There There, Its All Right, I'll Protect You thing, and let me get the tension out. Once I had finished being A Girl, he asked me again, and I pointed at the spider with a quivering lip and whimpered "funnelweb".

With disdain for my girly attitude with all things eight-legged, he muttered "Don't be silly, its just a lousy house spid...".

"Shit, you're right, its a funnelweb".

Joel has big boots. I like his big boots. The squish spiders very well, even if drowning and poisoning didn't finish it off. Shmogg came back in, looked at the *squished* black blob, and looked terribly smug as if he'd done the creature in himself.

I'm not sure everyone would like having a funnelweb in the loo prescribed for their flu, but it sure worked on me. But to compensate, I'm now both paranoid *and* confused; I have no idea whether I should take his hissing and Halloweening seriously, or as just another kitty joke. I get twitchy if he even looks at one spot for more than a few seconds and considering how many times cats have to communicate to the Mothership, and how many Greeblings are our house is, he's now playing me like a violin every few hours.

Bastard Cat.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
May 6, 2000