Shmokers

I call out “Shmokers” in vain. She hasn’t helped me tie my boots for three days now.

When Dingus, our red healer who killed every cat she found, went blind about twenty years ago we got a mama cat and three kittens to help replace the worthless poison we had been setting out for mice. The poison mostly just turned the turds blue. Oh boy, blue turds. The kind of excitement produced by the NFL and Mr(s)Jenner.

Dingus bounced off stuff for about three years and was unable to kill a cat. Shmokers was the kitten who survived the rough farm life we use eugenically on our cat herd. I guess she was the matron of our whole herd in one way or another.

She had a kitten this year too late. It was so tame, not like the others. It was scheduled to go to  housecat utopia in Minniapolis but we eugenicists have to stand on principle and she perished due to cold and, probably distemper before the bus left.

Anyway, I’ve always hated cats, and dogs don’t like me because I don’t take walks. So now I mourn for Shmokers, who at least would walk up and say hello, but stay the hell out of my way. I don’t understand why it took so long, though. She’d never move until the tire touched her.

By the way, it was about a month ago that I saw Shmokers  carrying two mice back to the shed where the cats are fed, to feed her baby.

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