The Piss of The Ghost Cat Story

Every time I come to my home town I stay at my mother's house. For Christmas holidays, weddings, important birthdays, etc... I come down and sleep in my old room. No, no trophies, no model planes flying from the ceiling, etc... (I never won anything and was never a competitive sports-person or a glue-sniffing artisan anyway.)

Back in the days when Mum had several feline pets, one of the tomcats, a red-tinged ex-stray with prominent goolies that I called Gingernuts, used to get rather distressed because I (another male) had invaded *his* house.

On my first day in the house he inevitably would sneak into to my bedroom and spray his evil-smelling piss somewhere obscure yet olfactorially prominent in order to mark the scene as his. Acrid ammonia would suffuse the room and whup me in the head when I tried to enter. We'd spend ages finding the wet-spot and trying the douse its pungency with soapy water and eau-de-toilette. Only then could I get into the room to sleep.

Now that Gingernuts is no more and has been pleasantly decomposing amongst the begonia roots of Mum's garden for the last year or so, I was happy to assume that my sleeping quarters would not be disturbed by repeat performances of this bastard feline's pheremonical ritual.

But somehow, on day one, after good old mum had made the bed and vacuumed the carpet in anticipation of her No1 Son's arrival, I found that the ghost of Gingernuts had managed to break the surly bonds of netherdom and squirted a spiritual spray of ammonia into my fucking bedroom again! Somebody please explain. The room reeked of his oh-so familiar rank aroma. But he was dead! How could he be still pissing his territory from two feet under the back garden?

Three nights in a row I suffered from this amazing metaphysical manifestation. Eventually I gave in to the demands of his post-mortem evanescent pissing and moved into the other, spare bedroom.

Someone please explain. I have no idea.

E@L