Thursday, December 6, 2007


She comes by night, and even by day, to fang my socks and my unsuspecting feet.

She lives like any legendary urban myth: everyone who has never seen her claims she does not exist, is a hoax or a figment of my too-active imagination. But those who have been victim to her evil mark, her lightning-swift appearance and sudden disappearance into darkness, know the truth.

The Nos-Feralas is out there. No ankle is safe, no unattended shoe, no piece of cloth or leather item left a moment unwatched.

I have proof: my wading boots leak from the fangings they have suffered. Alas, rendered disposable I have laid them to rest beyond the reach of sinister eyes. They adorn the feet of some one homeless now, I suspect, but they too shall suffer. The mark of Nos-Feralas will never be erased. The holes in the toes will ever leak relentless rain upon the tootsies of yet another hapless victim.

And there are countless victims, such as the stuffed toys that leak fluff from fabric wounds. They know not why they have been attacked. Their glazed plastic eyes speak volumes of the horrors to which their thread-stitched mouths cannot scream.

When the scrambling sound of her clawed feet is heard upon the hardwood deck, the other cats flatten their scarred ears and hide. They know the terror of Nos-Feralas.

Cheese on counter top can be found with gouges taken from its soft flesh. None are safe from the predations of the she-fiend Nos-Feralas. Not the young, smooth skinned Gouda, nor the ancient sharp cheddar. They both succumb to the mark of the fang.

The four-post bed that stands beneath a bay window mired by wet nose prints may hold such horrors, that only the bravest dare slip between the chilly sheets without a glance in search of furious eyes, glaring with malevolence and glowing with the unhealthy desire for tender tarsals.

She knows no fear. Her strike is swift. None but the most righteous boot may stand before the fiend. And we know their fate. Pity the boot that gives such stalwart service, only to be reduced to rubbish in the battle against the Nos-Feralas.

Vampire Kitty I hunt thee armed with nail clipper and toothbrush. Someday fiend, I shall be victorious. I hear the soft purr of your chuckling, wicked one. Laugh now, for tomorrow you may be vaccinated....

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