The Aspects of Christmas.

As the freight train that is Christmas barrels down upon us, I realise how conflicted Christmas time is.  The Spirit of Christmas.  The religious aspect.  Of stars leading wise men and a virgin birth.  The childhood memories of the magical aspect.  No child ever really wondered how Father Christmas flew around the world in a night and got down the tiny chimney with a large doll house, he just did.  The materialistic aspect.  Of excess food, un(read necessary) alcohol consumption, extravagant spending on high-end presents, more baubles and trinkets to decorate the tree, last minute, very expensive Christmas crackers filled with kitsch and weepworthy jokes, another 100 songs of Christmas CD, fake snow, fake tans, those blasted fairy lights that never work even after you have found the offending bulb. Wrapping paper!  Piles and piles of gleefully ripped, beautifully designed paper.  (I say gleefully because I had a mother who instructed me to unwrap ever so carefully so she could iron it for use next year. Needless to say we had a drawer full of flattened, never-to-be used Christmas wrapping and as a consequence, I have become a gleeful serial ripper.)  The family aspect.  Christmas is supposed to be "the most wonderful time of the year."  Deeply missed loved ones come home for Christmas, but long (wish they were lost) standing (only just) relatives do too. "He/she/they will only be here for Christmas, you can be nice for one day, can't you?" Response to which is usually an exaggerated eye roll.  A token gift for miserable Aunt Sophie, who mutters, in a voice not unlike Eeyore,  "Oh, I have always wanted one of these."  You know she hasn't and will probably re-gift it to you.  Creepy Uncle Ted who smells, gets drunk and makes inappropriate advances.  Children on sugar highs.  The on-going, never-to-be-repaired family feud which makes two separate occasions a sad necessity and the yearly re-enactment of "The martyrdom of the matriarch in the kitchen" scene worthy of an Oscar. The forgotten aspect.  Of doing Christmas from the heart, being thankful for your blessings, of sharing with those less fortunate. Remembering those who are remembering their lost loved ones, the people in war-ravaged places, the poor, the homeless, the desperate, the infirm, the newly bereaved, the lonely, the families and friends separated by distance. This is the true Spirit of Christmas.

Old age.

I have always had a soft spot for the elderly, particularly for those who have been abandoned in care homes because their families have emmigrated.  Money is sent for their care.  A faded photograph from happier days is a treasured thing, shown with pride.  I have seen frail geriatrics in the most appalling condition.  The spark gone from their rheumy eyes and yet a glimmer of hope when spoken to like the once proud adult they were.  I fail to understand the mindset that switches from 'my parent who brought me up' to 'an old person who has become a burden to me.'  Where is the compassion?  Why are the elderly not revered for their wisdom?  Why is it the norm to want to pass the buck onto care personnel who have no vested interest except a salary?  Why do people struggle to believe the elderly are sometimes abused both mentally and physically.  I think the reason old people often become so bitter and twisted is because they have lost their freedom, their voice, their dignity.  They are shouted at before anyone has ascertained whether or not they are deaf, they are spoken to like children even if of sane mind.  They are not stimulated by visitors, by being read to, helped with a puzzle or being taken out, but placed in front of a blaring television on a soapie channel with no remote.  No chance of choice.  Families get angry when an old person becomes resistant to change.  The thought of being put into a care home away from all that is known and comfortable is, frankly, terrifying for me and I am nowhere near being a geriatric.  I know that many go because they don't want to rock the boat and are desperately unhappy for the, usually foreshortened, remainder of their days.  Days that could have been spent with loving family around, beloved pets to cuddle and maybe a garden to tend.  Revered elderly people often live longer and healthier lives in their familiar surroundings. The elderly may develop mental issues and behave differently, but this can be managed if it is understood.  I feel that in some cases old people develop mental issues to escape the banal lives they are expected to lead.  Others fight the indignity of being handled like a petulant child and are then seen as difficult.  These are souls who fought in wars, danced with lovers, explored the world, wrote books, experienced life.  Their stories are their legacy, their experience, our lessons.  These words written by Dylan Thomas are apt "Do not go gentle into that dark night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light. . . "

PTSD

A traumatic event in somebody else's life has sparked the need to document my own experience.  I worked as an intermediate paramedic for at least ten years of my life.  I loved every minute of it.  It was a personal challenge as well as a learning curve every day I was out there on the road.  In my day, there was no debriefing, no support if one felt things were too much. Sensitivity was seen as weakness, so no one showed any emotion except for hilarity in the form of dark humour.  Things seemed fine until one night.  I was off duty and putting my young daughter to bed when we heard what sounded like a wet guinea fowl hit the window.  The whole house shook.  A silence of deep proportions took hold and then the screaming.  I realised it had been a shotgun blast.  From next door.  I rang the emergency number and sent my daughter, with the phone out to where neighbours were gathering in the road.  Then I jumped over the wall.  The sight was not one I would choose to describe.  There was nothing I, or anyone, could have done.  So I did what I could as far as managing the situation, handed over to the police, collected my daughter and returned home.  We made a cup of tea and chatted about what had happened.  While I was lamenting why, my daughter put everything into these wise words saying "Mum, he chose to leave this world this way."  We finished her bedtime story and she went to sleep.  While I waited for my husband to come home, odd things began to happen.  I 'saw' gaseous mustard coloured hands coming out of cupboards, through windows and up under the stairs.  Grabbing at me.  I could not feel safe anywhere in the house.  I kept thinking bullets were going to come through the garden wall.  It was highly disturbing.  I realised it was probably Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  The following day I went to work and kept reliving the events of the previous night in my mind, but one must prevail, so I did.  The senior paramedic on our shift suddenly decided to grill me about the intricasies of our latest patient and I felt such a fool because I couldn't answer him.  All that knowledge gleaned from years of experience, gone.  My mind was blank.  I had shut down.  I didn't care.  I decided that day that I did not want to be a paramedic any more.  I wanted to go and do something normal.  But after being in my line of work, how does one define normal?  I lost my confidence, I was fearful, I relived the incident continually and I was an insomniac for months.  I did get back on the horse eventually after taking myself off for psychological help, but I have never felt the same way about my work as I did before this event. Being a paramedic was my life.  Now it is a part of my life that I remember fondly.   It will never be left behind and no person will go unattended ever, but PTSD made things different.  It put things into a perspective I am lucky to have.  I am lucky because I understand what others go through and the importance of being counselled in a job that is abnormal for most.  I am, however, privileged to have served and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.

Blue Skyes.

From the land of the Long White Cloud

your name was returned.

Blue Skyes again smiles over

our childhood home.

Ghosts laid to rest with a smattering of tears,

but Oh What Joy

to know

we were always a sisterly unit

never to be torn apart again. 

Blue Skyes for us, 

whether in Africa or New Zealand,

Blue Skyes will remind us 

of each other 

all we need to do is look up

to feel our sisterly bond.

We did it

and in doing so, 

healed.

Matters that matter.

Wherever you look there are self help books, motivational sayings and things designed to make you say "Yes!  That's me!  Let me dissolve my negativity by smiling at people/helping the less fortunate/consciously replacing anger with joy. . ."   While this is possible in some circumstances, it is not in others.  A recurring issue recurs because it has not been dealt with.  As simple as that.  Writing it down and burning it is a nice distraction, but essentially it amounts to avoiding the problem.  (Unless you are pretty certain the universe will bend and whisper into the relevant ear.)  Speaking about it helps far better, but what if the person with whom you need to address the issue will not listen without turning it all around?  Convoluting your words and making you wish you had never brought up your gripe in the first place?  Causing you to feel stupid and humiliated?  It may well be that your problem seems petty, but it is your take on things.  You feel something about it and you have every right to.  There are self help books on how to communicate too.  Listen, understand and formulate your response or something like that.  Supposedly you can tell someone to go to hell in a loving way. . .  I digress.  Issues breed resentment and the longer the issue festers, the greater the resentment.  A calm and rational discussion, as touted in the self help books, is seldom viable in these cases.  The solution for many is to avoid conflict and try to pretend it doesn't matter.  Some braver souls opt for confrontation and end with a war.  A war which doesn't clear the air because the initial subject has been drowned in vitriolic spewing.  It is not about agreeing with or kowtowing to another.  It is about respect for and listening to an opinion on a matter that matters.

Sticks and stones. . .

I grew up with the adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."  I have said that to myself numerous times, in numerous situations, but I have come to realise that that saying is nonsense.  It was probably coined by some poor soul who had been on the pointy end of somebody's tongue lashing in an attempt to lessen the blow.  Words are a magnificent tool when it comes to their ability to wound.  A well placed acerbic comment can effectively humiliate, undermine and reduce another to a quivering wreck in the time it takes to utter the sounds.  The sad thing about hurting people with words is that they cannot ever be fully retracted.  Once words have been spoken, the sentiment is there.  People who speak without thinking and realise that their words may have hurt someone will typically clap their hand over their mouths and apologise.  Others, who use words as their weapon of choice, are skilled at the art of word war.  They will make insidious comments that are difficult to pin point as an insult.  They will say hurtful things and end with a laugh as if making a joke.  If confronted, the word bully will say something like "Oh, don't be silly, I didn't mean it like that, I meant this. . . "  Or, "Oh, I think you must have the wrong end of the stick."  Yeah, right, the sharpened end!  The intended target, usually a well mannered pacifist, seethes, but says nothing and then lies awake all night thinking about the clever, caustic retorts they could have made.  We are taught to ignore hurtful words, but in all honesty, we can't.  Sometimes a comment is so hurtful that even years later the residue of those cruel words still resonate.  I live by a rule that I may think what I like, but those thoughts may not leave my mouth unless they absolutely have to.  So, give me sticks and stones any day.  At least I have a chance to defend myself.  Words do hurt me.

Armchair activism.

I am noticing a trend toward, what I call, armchair activism on social media sites.  Some of it leads to great strides in awareness and some of it makes me question where humanity is going.  There are those out there who will vociferously defend a belief by attacking, ridiculing and condemning anything that is not within their sphere of understanding.  Some have a valid reason, some don't seem to need one and some are just being revolting trolls for the sake of it.  I, for one, like to think I am very careful about what I post on social media.  I check my sources and am very wary about who could be offended right down to the words I use and how they could sound to a reader.  I read all posts with an open mind, but often have to take a deep breath before studiously ignoring the urge to rant!  An emotional outburst, it seems, is not the way to respond.  There are causes to fight,  causes to take note of and causes to leave well alone.  I feel that far too many people take things far too seriously.  So seriously, in fact, that they have spilled out from social media and into real life, leading a misplaced comment into a deadly scenario.  My philosophy is find the happy medium, find balance.  If I can contribute information in a meaningful way, using my life experience or knowledge, I will try.  If not, I won't.  If I am shot down in flames and I am not passionate enough about a cause, I will back away.  I have learned that my opinion is not necessarily another's.  I have also learned that in cyberspace people don't care whether or not you are affronted.  Do I need that negativity?  A great, big resounding no!

Sam, a cat in a million.

Some years ago a rather bedraggled, smelly orange and white cat began nightly sorties to steal cat food.  Many stand off's were had between our legal resident, tiny Luna and this larger interloper.  I met this cat one day while hanging washing.  I noticed a ginger paw extending down from the garage roof and then a cat face emerged and miaowed at me.  I stroked the paw, which did not withdraw, and that was the beginning of my relationship with Sam.  His name was chosen by my daughter.  We don't know where he came from as none of our found posters elicited any response.  He was clearly used to charming humans and just flopped down when the dog sniffed him.  Luna, of course, was stiffly disapproving, but she isn't known as grumpy cat for nothing.  Sam was checked at the vet and declared a healthy, neutered male.  Sam settled into our lives as if he had always lived with us.  His personality as big as a house, he was always at the parties and gatherings.  When our new puppy arrived, Sam took to him and they became firm friends snuggling together on the couch or bed. Sam's love was food.  He would call me "Mel, Mel, Mel" and then sprint ahead of me to his room extending his rather large bulk up the door until I opened it.  This happened every single day.  If I was asleep, I would be wakened by his not so genteel stomping up the stairs.  Then, if I pretended to be asleep, a gentle patting with the paw was employed which slowly but surely became clawingly insistent.  If that failed to goad me into action I would be encouraged with biting. . .  The neighbours informed me that he was a thug, intimidating their kitties into giving him their food!  When Sam was put on diet because he weighed in at whopping eleven kilograms, he supplemented his diet with the local wildlife.  One morning I found the remains of two mice, a huge rat and parts of a pigeon.  Sam still ate his breakfast.  He did lose weight, but not much.  Luna moved out to live with my daughter and Sam stayed with us.  He seemed to thrive even more being an only cat.  He talked more and spent all his time in our company. Always there to greet, shouting from the top of the garage or splayed out on the paving for a tummy rub.  He quite often grabbed my dressing gown tie and led me around.  When my sleeping patterns went haywire I would come downstairs at three am to see his cat face at the door waiting for me. He would sit with me on the stairs as I drank my tea.  He was a very comforting presence.  At the beginning of June, Sam had what I thought was a scratch on his nose.  It would not heal and grew into a blob quite quickly so I took him to the vet.  Tests were done and it seemed Sam had a urinary tract infection which had to be cleared before removal of the possibly cancerous growth.  Sam seemed his usual self except he would pick at his biscuits and preferred soft food.  He was taken back to the vet for the operation on his nose.  That done, all once again, seemed fine.  The nose biopsy came back positive for hemagiosarcoma, a quite aggressive cancer, but the prognosis was not dire.  A few days later he suddenly developed huge weeping sores on his tummy, became lethargic and wouldn't eat or drink.  I made an emergency appointment for him early the next morning.  That afternoon, he was dead.  I visited him in the early afternoon and he greeted me, albeit a weakened version of himself.  When I returned to take him home later that evening, I just knew he was dying. He was cold and crying.  It broke my heart to tell the vet to put him out of his misery.  We said goodbye, both sobbing.  An IV was in situ so the vet did not have to move him.  He went peacefully.  I asked the vet to do an autopsy because we were unsure as to what exactly had happened.  We went home.  It was so quick, it was such a shock.  The vet kindly stayed late to perform the autopsy and called me to say that Sam had an enlarged right kidney and dark growths within both kidneys.  He died of renal failure. Poor brave Sam.  It is so quiet at home without his huge, comforting, purry self.  Angus, our bull terrier, searched for him in the days after he died.  I see flashes of him all the time and I swear I felt a nibble on my arm the other morning very early.

Bye Sammy, you were a cat in a million.

A very real funeral.

A man who has worked for our family for years came to tell us of the death of his beloved wife.  His grief was palpable, he sobbed unashamedly, a broken man.  We made him tea, gave him tissues and rescue remedy. Words for him were meaningless, but we uttered the usual platitudes.  He said he wanted to come to work to keep his mind off his loss.  A day or two later as he washed the car, he cried silently, tears rolling down his weathered cheeks.  I asked if he wanted to go home and he said no.  His concern was giving his wife a beautiful funeral.  This man is very poor, his life has been a struggle, yet he approaches everything with a can do attitude.  He has recently acquired a new house in a slightly better area than the ghetto he had lived in for so many years and the reason, ultimately, why his wife succumbed to tuberculosis.  She sadly never had the chance to hang frilly curtains at her new glass kitchen window.  We stepped in to help with the funeral.  I asked if I might attend and on a bright, chilly Friday morning, arrived to say goodbye.  The whole neighbourhood was there.  Dogs, children, adults all standing outside the small house.  It was bitterly cold, yet people were dressed in their finery. No stockings or jerseys.  I was greeted and taken to view the body.  I had forgotten that it is the way it is done in their community.  We sanitise death and all we deal with is a small box of ashes.  The coffin was ornate and within the open end was white cloth with purple edging and a face.  A dead cold face.  Her eyes were not entirely closed.  I admit to being taken aback thinking could the undertakers not have glued them shut.   Her children, all young adults, stood holding each other sobbing.  I do not usually attend funerals because I feel the pain of others acutely.  Holding back tears for me is very difficult.  I feel a little like a fraud appearing to cry for someone I don't know well.  In that community, though, emotions are worn on sleeves and it is refreshing not to have to hold back.   After scores of people had quietly shuffled past the open coffin and paid their respects, the coffin was carried from the house, slid into the hearse.  We drove slowly to the church.  The church was a run down building and the pastor nowhere to be found.  He was eventually located and the coffin was moved into the building.  I was asked to be a pall bearer.  The service began and the pastor, a charismatic preacher.  I almost jumped out of my seat a number of times when he bellowed.  We sang, clapped and some danced.  All throughout I watched as the family stood quietly, heads bowed, tears flowing.  The final trip was to the cemetery.  The sun shone, but it was still very cold.  A deep hole draped with fake green grass waited to claim the coffin.  More singing and the coffin was lowered.  Dirt and flowers were thrown, the green mats removed and the men of the funeral party helped fill the grave while the women sang.  The resulting earthen mound was decorated with clear plastic cool drink bottles filled with water and plastic flowers.  It was over.  As we made our way back to the house, people were arriving with plates of food and huge pots of soup.  I smiled and said, "you gave her a beautiful funeral, well done."  And he did, and what made it so beautiful for me was the heartfelt passion of a man for his wife.  It was real.

03h00

It is 03h00.  Again.  I am awake, wide awake.  What does one do at the witching hour when it is dark, very quiet, the rest of the household is fast asleep and the glowing red numerals of the alarm clock taunt you?  I initially look to see what time it is, knowing fully what time it will be, then I lie still hoping that I will nod off, but knowing I won't.  Tea sometimes helps, but making it all depends on how spooky it is downstairs!  I am often afraid in the dark, but not to the same extent all the time.  Some nights are worse than others. I have a personal policy not to trawl facebook or the internet in the wee hours to limit the emfs I expose myself to.   I would read, but that would mean bothering my bedfellow with my bedside light.  The television is downstairs so that is not an option for aforementioned reasons.  This morning I write, but usually I do what I call circular thinking.  I go around in mental circles trying to work out things that are bothering me, have practice angry conversations with people, rehash events of the day, write 29 versions of an important email in my head, make profound life decisions. Somehow emotions experienced during this enforced wakefulness are magnified too.  Sometimes the early morning thinking yields results, but mostly any sweeping epiphanies fade into insignificance with the rising of the sun.

Beaches, dogs and curtailment of freedom.

The beach, any beach has always been my go to place in times of contemplation.  The calming motion of the water soothes me.  The sand on my feet, my badge of happiness.  A beach is a free space where dancing can be done, cartwheels executed with wild abandon, horses gallop and dogs run unfettered.  It belongs to no one and should be revered as a sacred space.  Why would the powers that be wish to attempt to enforce a law which takes away something as fundamental as dogs on beaches?  At the moment, unless enough people object, dogs will be banned or severely curtailed on our beaches.  Leashed and policed.  Where will our dogs be able to run free?  The simple answer is, they won't.  The reasoning is immaterial to me.  It is wrong to consider taking a basic pleasure away.  Dogs accompany their humans surfing, fishing, content, free companions who also offer some protection against bad elements who frequent the beaches.  The people I associate with are conscientious about picking up after their dogs and are quick to leash their dogs if there is a problem, but seldom have I witnessed aggressive dogs on our beaches.   Aggressive humans, yes!  How happy do those sandy, damp dog faces look, panting and content in the back of a bakkie after a frolic in the sea?  This will be a thing of the past if we do not stand together and object.  Maybe all the dogs and their humans should stage a beach protest march.  Someone has to understand that if this law is passed, it will be a travesty.  Let us and our furry friends at least have the beach.

Goodbye tree.

A well established garden is a pleasure.  I thoroughly enjoy wandering around checking on the plants, picking off dead leaves, admiring the lush growth, the pretty rosebuds, getting stupidly excited about a tomato or patti-pan bursting forth in my veggie patch.  Gardens are places for contemplation and, I believe, reflect the state of mind of the gardener.  Bird song and quiet in the late afternoon makes me happy.  I often sit at my outside table sipping a chilled glass of wine and watch as the last rays of sunlight turn to dusky twilight.  The bats suddenly appear swooping and swishing, catching insects.  The circle of life is very much apparent if one just takes the time to notice.  Birds nest, lizards bask, spiders spin, butterflies burst forth after their caterpillars have decimated leaves.  I do not believe in using anything that purposefully kills so I share my garden with all manner of species.  Sometimes, because we are human, we feel the need to do away with things in our gardens that no longer serve a purpose or are encroaching on our property.  It has finally come to pass that the Eugenia tree has spread its roots under the house.  It is almost seven metres tall, a restaurant for the baboons who love its pink berries and is home to all manner of bird life.  The decision was made to fell it a few months ago, but it was reprieved because our little black cat needed it to escape to the roof.  Now that the cat has moved out, its death knell tolled.  I chose a tree feller carefully, someone who would understand that a tree for me is not just a tree.  The tree feller promised to carefully put any nests he found in another tree.  Today is the day.  I went out at dawn to say thank you and goodbye to the tree.  When I went to the bank early to draw the money to pay for the job I suddenly realised how sad I was at this prospect.  That tree has grown with us as a family.  As is the way of the universe, I met a lovely lady in the queue and found myself telling her about the tree.  She understood and assured me the tree would understand.  I drove home.  The tree feller arrived and now as I type, I can hear the chainsaws.  I cannot bear to look.  I mourn this end of life and it hurts, but that is the nature of me and I couldn't do it any other way.

Ode to maggots.

Fearless I and often called

to capture, not kill, creeping creatures
and not one of them did I abhor
until I first saw maggots.

In dark, dirty places bred by flies
heat-hatched in rotten flesh.
The wriggling mass once realised
filled me with pure revulsion.

They spilled off the bag onto the floor
and moved with speed toward my feet
with grotesqueness only they can have
pus-white, rice-like, fat on meat.

Carrion eaters, coffin companions
putrefaction's little messengers
showing me in their slimy minions
my fear of my mortality.

I gasped in fear felt in my gut
and leapt about my feet up high
imagining maggots on my body
quelling panic, the urge to cry.

I wished they'd simply go away
my bravery had been defaced.
The urge to kill them, maim, destroy
overcame my sense of reason.

I steeled myself to act against them
exterminate the vile, vile things.
All in vain, I could not face them
my nemesis found, my feet grew wings.

Mel Gouws 14/02/2001

Thoughts on freedom of speech.

The definition of freedom of speech has become a world wide debate in the wake of the tragic events in France.  It is supposedly a human right, yet how free can our speech or expression truly be?  Freedom of speech, if taken literally, means having the right to say exactly what we feel without censorship or sensitivity to the opinions of others without consequences. Most people naturally censor their opinions depending on the forum they are presenting to.  'Freedom of speech' is shouted to the hilltops, but how free should our speech really be?  If I knowingly insult another with my opinion of them, they should be free to insult me in retaliation. Please note, insult in retaliation, not murder.  This I should accept if I wish to take the phrase 'freedom of speech' literally.   If I unknowingly insult somebody and I am alerted to this fact I should apologise.  Simple, but seldom practised and possibly a naive assumption.  Words or artistic expression are in the eye of the beholder and the aspect I find difficult to get my head around is the diverse, conflicting views that people hold about the same topic.  I may think that as long as I feel my speech harms none, I should be allowed to air my views, but what about the individual who disagrees with the subject I am airing?  The adage "think before you speak" applies to my writing because as we all know, once the commentary is out, it cannot be easily retracted.  I try to be as sensitive as possible, but someone, somewhere will probably be offended.  So, yes I do self-censor to an extent.  I struggle to understand why people, aka trolls, hiding behind computer screens on various social media sites have the need to stir things up.  Racist and religious slurs, vitriolic outbursts and insulting language to list some of the upsetting things I have seen online.  Just my opinion you understand.  My personal rule is never to be drawn into the fray although sometimes I become so angry, I admit to having been tempted to comment.  The problem is that, as the world has witnessed, that anger became a blood bath, a fatal retribution to what some perceived as satirical.  If there was to be such a thing as true freedom of speech, it has to work for all, but as we know, deeply ingrained perspectives cannot be changed.  As intelligent, benevolent beings simply wanting peace on this planet, I think we should consider the fact that free speech or no-holds barred expression has suddenly become a honed, double-edged sword.  A Damoclesian sword which will cause even the most outspoken to think twice and words to be almost always carefully coached to protect the feelings and lives of others.   A sad ending to the saying "the pen is mightier than the sword."  So, my humble, reluctant conclusion is this.  Raw, uncut freedom of speech in this turbulent world of ours can in fact no longer safely exist.

Luna.

Angus, being a boisterous bull terrier, tends to hog the limelight.  There is no ignoring him even if you try and the same goes for Sam, our rather large ginger cat.  At first light Sam calls me for his food.  He shouts 'Mel, Mel, Mel' or 'Ma, ma, ma' as he plonks up the stairs.  If I do not immediately respond, he pats me in the face.  If he suspects that I am pretending to be asleep, (of course I am, who could sleep through Sam abuse?) he brings out his fail-safe, and somewhat painful, sneaky claw.  We do in fact have a third fur child, a very tiny, highly opinionated, grumpy black cat.  She chose my daughter at TEARS, the local animal shelter.  A rehabilitated feral cat, she had been completely disdainful of both her cat mates and the humans who tried to love her, but she greeted my daughter from her perch by putting her minute paws on her shoulders.  It was an instant bond.  As we left, this apparently solitary and unsociable cat, followed all the way down the enclosure and stretched her paw through the mesh of her cage. Cola came home and was renamed Luna.  It took some time and a lot of love from my daughter for Luna to settle in comfortably.  She slept on my daughter and helped with all her art projects.  Luna has never really meowed, she 'meeps' and makes bird-like squeaks.  When Angus arrived she still lived on the ground, but after she scratched his nose one day war was declared between the two.  From then on, if Angus saw Luna, the chase was with nasty intent.  Luna had to make hasty dash for the tree onto the roof or to the wall.  Luna, next to Sam, is a quarter of his size, but feisty.  She often boxed Sam even if he had done nothing.  He just sat there and took it with a silly look on his face!  Luna went missing once.  It was awful.  We put up posters and asked all over the neighbourhood.  I told my daughter who was heartbroken thinking Luna had left her, that Luna would be back if she could.  Two weeks later, while we were out, a kind neighbour phoned saying she thought she had seen Luna.  My daughter rushed home and phoned me in floods of tears because Luna had returned, very thin, but very happy to see her human.  We think she may have been shut in a garage when the neighbours went on holiday.  My daughter moved out last year into a block of flats where pets were not allowed.  Luna stayed at home and spent her time on the roof, off doing cat stuff or sitting in the middle of our, thankfully, quiet street, leg in the air, washing herself.  I worried that as she got older, her escaping skills would slow and Angus may catch her.  My daughter moved from the flat and into a pet-besotted house.  I suggested Luna move too.  I packed her little case with food, a bowl and her blanket and yesterday, Luna went to live a far more suitable cat life.  No chasing, lots of human contact, ground!  Queen Grumpy Cat, Looley Luna will rule the roost.  I will miss you little meeper, but your life is going to be wonderful from now on.