You who have no cats do not understand what I am writing about. But those of you who are owned by the feline tribe, you will understand how one fumbles for consciousness when roused from a total lack of consciousness, rather like how our ancient ancestors would wake with two choices: flight or fight. Only when you are owned by felines, it’s more like flight, fight, or what the hell is that???

Sudden consciousness - or at least a substrate of consciousness that perceives it is dark, no light save the weak green glow of a night-glo wall plug, no moon light filling the house tonight thanks to the black out shades. Just silence and the hum of the humidifier in the corner of the bedroom trying in vain to pump a few percentage points of humidity into our dry air. I blink and realize ah, my eyes are open. And ….why?

Something triggered that flight or fight instinct and my heart is pounding though I have no clue as to what or why. I'm not even sure where I am. It’s dark. Yes, I know that. I check the glowing digital clock. I can't even comprehend the time. Its red and glowing...

My brain runs through the check list of the known universe: dogs snoring, check and check; hubby snoring, check; no small child whispering mommy, check; Sophia cat a 10 lb lead weight generating sweat against my armpit; check; Moses the tubby tabby on the end of the bed slowing the blood supply to my left calf with his 15 lb anchor, check again. Hmmmm. Something is missing. Ah - I can still feel my toes and this is not correct. My leg should be numb from the knee down to my toes with 22 lbs combined anchoring... No Spike. The little Siamese is MIA from the happy heaven of bed with the humans…

My ears suddenly gain sonar acuity and hone in on a sound variance from the hum of the humidifier. I can hear a faint flutter of something in the adjoining bathroom, followed by a the lightest padding of velvet paw on tile. Step….pause, whisker quiver….step, freeze, exhale, tail lash, scrunch down, rev those hind legs up for jumping-.

My brain struggles to fit the pieces together with what I know of the bathroom. Tiles line a ledge around the bathtub. Velvet paws belong to Spike. And a flutter of …my brain rewinds a segment from the late night news cast: Miller moth invasion…swarms of these harmless-to-human pests moving up to cooler weather in the mountains as the plains warm up with the approach of summer heat….blah blah blah.

MOTHS! Now, I hadn't actually witnessed any moths in the house. They just don't last long with 3 cats, and a dog who can catch flies (The golden retriever just watches them fly by...). But the flap flap flap I could hear now could only be one thing: a moth fluttering against the window shade in the bathroom. Desperately beating dusty wings trying to escape the predator of the night shadows! Death lurks, and it has velvet paws…and the tile is slick because I just cleaned it.

And I knew with sudden clarity shredding the last cobwebs of sleep from my brain, that I was not going to be quick enough. For what I know of the bathroom, besides the tile ledge and the slickness of clean tiles, was I had set my glass hurricane candleholder there mere hours ago for a luxurious candlelit bath. Right there on the ledge. Next to the window where a moth was slamming his wings against help me help me help me....

“SPI-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-K-E-“ My feet thrown over the edge of the bed, cats flying, dogs suddenly awake. Time slows, and I am faster than Time. I accelerate with each step - it takes 5 - reach the open frame door between bed and bathroom – I'm not going to make it. The useless part of my brain plays with theories of relativity, mass x velocity=force, cat+moth+glass=CRASH.

I know that sound and my body freezes, time coalesces, forward momentum stilled. The hand is on the light switch that clicks. And I stand poised, one foot on the ground, the other extended behind me like a dancer in mid flight. Ta-flipping-da!

That sound I know. That crash? It is the sound glass makes when it hits something harder than itself and shatters, nay that doesn't quite describe it - implodes and scatters – at near-molecular level. The sides of the tub are washed in a glittering Tsunami that rises on the lip of the tub, crests and subsides, contained, a sea of glittering diamond bright nano-particles.

In the harsh bazillion megawatt light of the 10 vanity light strip across the mirror (like who really needs that much clarity in the morning anyway), the tealight candle continues it’s forward momentum, rolls down the center of the bathtub and circles the drain in lopsided, ever shrinking orbits, before flopping over in a soft whapp whapp whappappapppa..

My gaze traces the path of the candle back to the impact site. Two of the larger pieces of the hurricane lampshade rock into silence in the glitter of thousands, trillions…zillions of smaller. molecule-sized pieces. Proof that my brain is fully functional comes in the clear deduction and single thought: uh uh, nope, glue is not going work in this case.

Well duh! I am not at my most intelligent in these circumstances. I go in search of the broom and dust pan and sweep the remains into the trash. The dogs roll over during this boring and mundane chore, and in moments, their snoring joins my husband’s buzzing.

There is no Spike kitty to be seen. No moth either. No little wings, no legs, no crime scene tape of spread wings…nothing. As if the glass fell by itself, for no reason other than to stop existing. Trees falling in the forest…candles falling over in the bathtub. The naked hurricane stand remains on the ledge.

From the glare of the vanity lights I can see that Sophia and Moses have commandeered and curled up on my pillow and now eye me with demon red glows of resentment in their unblinking stares. Spike has vanished – but as there are no bloody tracks and no body – no crime has been committed. The invasion is over.

I turn out the lights and then stretch out to go back to sleep. Hubby snores. I think about poking him and try to hug a corner of the pillow without disturbing the cats. They loose their resentment to reclaim their favorite places and I get a pillow with a fresh coat of yummy hair... I doze off with my leg going numb and my armpit uncomfortably warm and I imagine Spike is off in the basement having a moth feast.

Darkness. Silence. Peacefulness. Slumber…And a gosh awful smell. EWWW what is that reeking smell? Ever helpful, my brain proposes causes: something has died, tar pits, splattering volcanic vents of sulphur and molten lava , a hellmouth has opened it's gaping maw... or .. or. I crack open an eye and blink in the acrid stinging atmosphere.

Blue eyes in a dark mask greet me in the faint light of dawn – how can it be dawn already? Spike has reconstituted from thin air and is perched on my pillow, tail curled neatly across his front feet with just the slightest tick of the tip in pleasure. He starts to purr, pausing only occasionally to give a delicate little grunt – a gentleman’s burp. And licks his whiskers in relish of a meal revisited. Ahhh.

The air becomes rather thick and really stinks of something unbelievably, irrevocably dead…the aroma of Moth breath. Spike looks so pleased.

Brrp? He looks benignly through slitted eyes, licks a paw as if patting a napkin to his lip with pinky raised, and gives a delicate shudder. The epitome of fine feline dining etiquette.

My lungs crave oxygen. I must find air I can breath and I roll over. I cannot help but notice the three small corpses arranged on my nightstand, head to toe, wings spread full flutter, missing only the garnish presentation. How sweet. Breakfast in bed…moths. Plump juicy ones, only slightly nibbled, not even damp...

Mrrow? Spike asks, patting my cheek, Brrrd? Mrrrv Mrow Rooow. Look, I've brought you a treat. I caught them my own self with my bare claws in the dark of night. So you just have a nibble of those tasty millers.

“Gee…thanks Spike.” I grab a Kleenex and bag the bodies. My hand trembles a little. “Saving them for later,” I lie.

Spike looks offended but pretends otherwise, artfully sticking a hind leg up over his left ear to start a bath, purring his loudest. I got to get a better wake up call.

Hubby snores on, blissfully asleep. That does it. I reach over with my left foot to poke the snorer…

Mrgregh. The hubby wakes and the dogs, hearing the echoing purr by my head, get up and do the body skin flap thing that is only slightly less loud then standing on a runway next to a jet revving up engines for take off. One hubby eye peels open.

I smile charmingly. “Look honey, Spike brought me breakfast in bed…” I show the contents of the Kleenex. “I would love to have breakfast in bed that would be oh…romantic and edible.” Nudge nudge.

Hubby glares over at Spike. Romance is not a mood hubby wakes in, foot poke or not. He turns over, peers at nightstand and clock…starts laughing. I look over his shoulder and reach for another body bag - er Kleenex. Santa Spike has left presents all around. Another moth is on hubby’s nightstand, carefully centered on the face of his watch like a platter serving for one...

You know, Spike must be thinking hubby needs to go on a diet with the single offering.

In Loving Memory of Spike.
Nov 1992 - Nov 2003
He is sadly missed.

Copyright © Martha Cowley
December 5, 2003