In the years that followed, Zerbil ruled as best he could. His top-notch diet cost us more than the children had ever done. This came about by his use of the hunger strike method, refusing to eat until we found something which he liked. The benefit to him being that the particular bio-dynamic, organic and extremely costly product that he had chosen, kept him lively, on form and super-demanding even at the age of sixteen which was when my husband and I had the chance to travel to Tasmania, that little island Under Down Under.

We would be away for almost four weeks. My daughter and a neighbour, both well known and possibly well liked by Zerbil agreed to meet with him daily between them and care for him in the manner to which he had become accustomed. This arrangement seemed agreeable to us all.

Reports from the northern hemisphere to the southern were going well. Zerbil was being a model cat. I asked my daughter if this did not seem suspicious. She didn’t. I did and as the first week rolled into the second an ominous silence from the Americas sent me to the telephone. I guess my name kept cropping up on my daughter’s cell phone because it took several days before she reluctantly answered my calls.

“Hallo Mom! Well, yes, there was a bit of a problem, but it’s fine now!”

“What! Tell me! Is Zerbil OK?”

“Oh yes! Zerbil has never been finer.”

“What then?” I heard the deeply taken breath as my daughter began to tell the tale.

“Well, as you know, Mom. Zerbil is a very clean cat. Always goes outside; the house is always fresh and never smells catty or anything. We-ell…”

“Yes! Yes!” Impatience was begining to overtake me.

“The fact is, Mom, we began to smell something…. Something bad. I thought it might have been some garbage that you had forgotten, but it wasn’t.”

“What did he do?” I said, not really wanting to hear.

“Upstairs; in your bedroom; all over your bed. Oh Mom! It had soaked right through to the mattress. It was awful.”

Complete silence ruled. Eventually I said:

“And?” My daughter’s response was immediate.

“We got rid of it all, including the mattress and we drove to Ikea and bought you a nice new one. It was under five hundred dollars. We shut all the interior doors and made sure Zerbil only had access to the kitchen and outside, and now every thing is fine. I’m sorry Mom.”

I knew her ‘Sorry’ included the fact that I had the darn cat at all. I knew it was not her fault and I knew, that in spite of the fact that I would dearly like to strangle Zerbil with my own hands that I did not blame him either.

We returned after a splendid holiday to a super new mattress. A mattress that had long been on our list to buy! The old one which Zerbil had so conveniently demolished for us had been more than fifteen years old and we had never quite justified the money for a replacement.

Zerbil was vociferous in his welcome back speech, telling us no doubt of his achievements in our absence. And I have to admit I thanked him for the wonderfully improved nights of sleep which I now enjoy. Zerbil has remained a clean and self respecting cat. No misdemeanours before or since his gift (albeit at our expense) of the new mattress.

Thank you, Zerbil

Although I was only 20 years old, I had done pretty well for myself in my three service years. From a raw boot I had worked and studied myself up to first class petty officer, the equivalent of an Army tech sergeant. Aboard ship and on shore stations, I had been an instructor, leader of work details and talker on a gun mount. I thought I was pretty hot stuff when I went looking for a job.

My pride wilted a bit after I went through the dreary search process. The only offers I got were from fast-food joints for pay of about half of what I had earned in the Navy. Actually it was even worse when my free food and living quarters were factored in. After a couple of weeks, I called the office of my high school counselor. I was told by the enthusiastic counselor that he had a great management training job for me.

Now, that sounded like an appropriate opportunity for this ex-sailor who had managed men at sea. I took down the address, put on my Sunday best clothes and went for my interview. I began to have some suspicions when I found the building in the shabbiest part of the city. The sign said it was a mattress factory. What the hell, I thought, they must need some sharp manager trainee to get the place shipshape and quickly be promoted to big boss.

Instead of being taken to the office to learn my management duties, I was shown to the big open space where a bunch of weary-looking guys were stuffing … what else … mattresses. I was shown to a place at one of the tables, and told to … what else … start stuffing. No talk about my obvious path to management, just a gruff two-minute instruction on what to do.

The place was dank, unventilated and painfully hot in the July heat. It smelled awful, mainly because the stuffing was organic, mostly a combination of chicken and duck feathers. The other workers, probably illegal entrants who probably hadn’t bathed since coming across the border jammed into a truck, were listlessly doing the best they could. The polluted air soon caused me to cough and rub my eyes as I assumed my stuffing duties. The work for all of us consisted of stuffing, coughing and crying.

After three hours, we were permitted a half hour lunch break. While the rest of the crew just remained where they were and munched their tacos, I opted to go out into the city to get some fresh air. To this day, I wonder if they’re still looking for me. I never returned from lunch.