Illumination rumination

The barrage of bluster and sog seems to have passed for the moment, and we have here a fine and bright afternoon to enjoy, to walk leisurely in the open with the sun on our fur, to survey in clear and revealing light the situation on the ground.

The Man has spent most of his time in the mooring dock with his gurgling machinery, pumping out the boggish slurp that has accumulated there. This requires the opening of the massive blast door between the docking area and the garagery — frontally exposing the bunker keep to the outside world, but also offering me an excellent (and somewhat theatrical) point of egress. One day I must discover and master the controlling mechanism of this loud and rumbling blast door. One must not underestimate the potential impact of the occasional sudden and dramatic entrance. I know the squirrels would void their cheeks in utter shock.

The Woman has loaded her transport with the gear and accoutrements of the one called Gran-hama. This Gran-hama arrived on the heels of last week's great storm, and took shelter in my bunker. She was a pleasant and attentive guest, though I fear she credits Fabio with more intelligence than his blubber-couched countenance truly conveys. Her annual departure following the Indulgent Festival of Paper usually portends the removal of the great tree and the onset of the long dark soak of a new year. We shall see how that plays out.

Both Fabio and the Rodent have spent the day in repose, seeking the transient localizations of light and warmth and following them as they migrate west-to-east along the floors and cushions of the fortress. Understandable, though short-sighted; why satisfy oneself with four square feet of ephemeral internal sunlight when the whole outside world is bathed in it? This is a day for exploration and activity, for stretching the limbs and filling the lungs and staving off atrophy (Fabio, I'm looking at you).

It is also a day for heightenend watchfulness, for cats and gran-hamas are not the only creatures that emerge from their holes to greet such warmth. There is no telling what menagerie of vermin and crittery might also be drawn out into the bright balm, so it behooves the vigilant to resist the natural impulse to let indulgence lull us off our guard.

Oop — I hear the blast door closing. Best get back and sweep the garagery for marmots. My work is never done.

Shmooltide greetings

Once again, the neighborhood is lit and tinseled in tribute to the Shmool that watches over it. And in this cold and wet season, I have delivered, if nothing else, peace. There have been no masked-fingercat sightings in over a year; the crows have resumed a respectful posture; Fabio has taken his business back outside where it belongs. All in all, I have done good work here.

Which perhaps explains why the sinister Wind-Demon Gustus Tempestuo chose my protectorate as the object of his blustery ire last week. Close on the heels of a good soaking at the slimy hands of his bastard cousin, Satura Sogg, Gustus came barging in upon the placiditude of our Shmooltide, as unexpected and unwelcome as the cold thermometer of Dr. Fingerer.

The huffery and puffery of this blowgod was colossal. His flatulence ripped through my streets, turning gravity itself on its ear and thrashing mercilessly upon my stronghold. The great gate groaned and bulged painfully against the onslaught; the foundations wobbled nervously; the trees bowed in submissive supplication. Fabio passed out.

But not I. No indeed, I left the comparative safety of my fortress behind and strode unflinchingly out into the yard to greet the Demon. I stood boldly in open ground, squared my chest against the behemoth, and held my head high in defiant challenge.

The Man soon came stumbling out into the maelstrom, bent and unsteady, shielding his face and yelling unintelligibles at me. He scooped me up into his tattered overcloak and hauled me back into the shelter of my fortress. And the Demon smiled, loudly kicking the door shut behind us in a rude display of insolence.

I waited, allowed the Man to decloak and unshoe. Then I went back out, letting the tumultuous din carry away his vain protests. And I resumed my place astride the Demon's path, and bellowed my challenge:

GET THEE AWAY, GUSTUS! I AM SHMOOL AND I AM HERE! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

By dawn, the Demon had fallen away. And tried and tested though we were, my domain stood whole, blasted but uninjured. And tranquility fell once again upon my land, my gift to the faithful and the worthy.

I hear that several neighboring regions did not fare so well. The crows (now several feathers shy of modesty) talk of darkness sweeping across great swaths of the metropolis, of mighty trees fallen and fortresses compromised.

I guess the cats who protect those ravaged lands just don't have what it takes. Because sometimes blood-honed claws and hardened fangs aren't enough. Some enemies can't be slashed, nor chomped, nor even bluffed. Sometimes it takes something more.

Sometimes it takes nothing less than a cast-iron colon.

Stille fidelis, adeste tanenbaum, nacht burlives humbug in excelsis noel...

Them blankets is mine

There appears to be some misapprehension around here as to the precise chain-of-command regarding the assignment of sleeping quarters. Let me just clarify.

The Rodent, I concede, has the right-of-way on the Primary Orthogonal Cushion when said cushion is occupied by the Man and Woman during the night shift. I claim access to this central high ground as my functional CIC during daylight operations, but once the fortress stands down for hibernation, I fully understand the need for the Rodent to bunk with the humans. After all, from what I've seen of his cross-bar positioning between them, it would appear he serves some function as a kind of lumbar pillow.

Therefore, it follows that the pillowy satellite outposts fall under my jurisdiction after hours. And that includes the rounded cushion-crater filled with blanketry lying just east of the P.O.C. The Rodent has made a habit of using this station as an auxiliary bunk during the night — presumably as a fallback position for the Man's gassier evenings. And, it does happen to occupy the same location once reserved for the Rodent's detention cage (the removal of which was a move of questionable wisdom which will not be debated here). So old habits die hard, I am sure.

Nevertheless, I am hereby exercising my right as senior officer to commandeer these blankets and the cushion thereunder as my personal sleeping quarters. I have hacked up my personal signature thereupon as confirmation of the transfer of ownership. The Rodent is expected yield honorably.

Also, will someone please get the Rodent's saliva-soaked toys out of there? I mean, no one wants to sleep with all that gross, and I need the space for my hairballs.