My parents came over one day. Shmoggleberry didn't bat an eyelid and continued to deposit his drool into the back of the lounge. He behaved perfectly normally, followed everyone into the bathroom "just to watch", randomly clawed people as they tried to skritch him, and sat and begged all through dinner. Except of course, at about half way through, where he felt it was necessary to fumigate the place via his cat box. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. After dinner, it was dark, so I told my parents how much Shmoggleberry loves chasing the torch light. Out came the torch, and there I stood in the hallway, jiggling 'round the torch, crooning at Shmoggleberry to come and play.

Never in his life has he ignored the torch. He'll play for hours. I'm the one who gets sick of the game first, and I always have to put up with the mournful stare once I've "hidden" the spot of light he's been using to demonstrate his hunting prowess. Of course, as my parents were there, he knew I was trying to show him off like a proud parent shows off their child, and he wasn't going to play ball, err, torch. He took one look at the torch light, made a kitty version of "hurrumph" and went away, leaving me red faced.

"Does he like the catnip-mousie we got him" inquired my Mum, proud Grandma of Shmoggleberry. "Hasn't touched it, sorry" I reply, slightly apologetically, "In fact, I haven't see that mousie for months".

You know what happens next. Even I knew what was going to happen next. Suddenly there was a flash of grey (cat) and floral (mousie) through the lounge room. Shmoggleberry is virtually dancing with the mousie, making all sorts of enthusiastic and joyful sounds. To the left, to the right, fling your partner...

"Ummm...", says I, with the now familiar glow of beetroot upon me, "he's never done that before".

Mum smiles at me with a mixture of pity and sympathy. "Its OK, we understand," she simpers, making it blindingly obvious that she knows I've gone a little odd. Dad puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"No, really", I splutter, " I thought he hated that thing". Mum just nodded, in that serenely insulting way parents have perfected all over the world. "Yes, dear".

Shmoggleberry continued to amuse his kitty grandparents for the rest of the night, while ignoring his real "mummy" entirely. Little suck-up. I occasionally flashed the torchlight to see if I really wasn't going mad. No, I was definitely insane, he wasn't the least bit interested. When the parents finally departed, he trotted up to me, gave me the most withering stare, and then started rubbing himself on the torch. That only means one thing - lets play!

Lucky he's cute, I'm sure I would have strangled him on numerous occasions. I didn't quite get the opportunity that night though, I was kept busy shining the torch up and down the hall. Damn cat.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
August 17, 1999