This morning, the sun shone brightly through the bay window. The warm rays stretched below deck to the carpet under the table where all hands had gathered. Uncle Keaks lay soaking up the early morning sunshine. His rhythmic, heavy breathing rocking me to sleep.
The transcend into Nirvana was at hand, when, Uncle Keaks was abruptly scooped up and stuffed into the box with the handle on top.
It is not a happy place, that box.
An hour later, Keaks was back, smelling funny. And, I was not amused.
Uncle Keaks had been to the place of odd occurrences: where a light is beamed into your eyes, where your lips are peeled back, where your tummy is rubbed like a ball of dough, where your buttocks smart from a sharp prick.
And that's if you're lucky. Sometimes, it's an all day affair. Then, it's days before that smell wears off.
So, instead of an enjoyable little morning snooze, today I listed like a ship.
I realize, it wasn't me who was stuffed into the box, violated and made stinky. Trust me though, it may as well have been me. That smell tilted me. I heard little voices cry "heave - ho!" I hissed. I moaned. I had an out-of-body experience.
My therapy included hours in the garden, a handful of fresh catnip and generous amounts of affection well into early evening. I have no choice but to retire early. The blanket is pulled tight over my woozy head.
Uncle Keaks still stinks.