Smudge’s Diaries: September 2025

September arrived pretending to be calm.

The air changed first. Cooler. Sharper. Windows cracked open just enough to let the good air in. From my usual position, I watched the street wake earlier than usual. Children appeared again. Freshly uniformed and wildly optimistic. New shoes squeaked. Bags looked too big for their bodies. Parents hissed reminders to stay on the pavement as if this rule had ever mattered before.

The first few mornings were loud with optimism. By day three, the bags dragged. Feet thudded. Someone cried before breakfast. I was woken twice before my second nap. Cats, it turns out, are expected to absorb this seasonal disruption without complaint.

I did not agree to this.

The Curly Intruder

Sundays returned quietly.

Proper ones. Softer mornings. Slower movement. The kind where nothing happens unless it absolutely has to. I dared to hope that August’s chaos had finally burned itself out and that we might return to a more civilised way of living.

Then Ben arrived.

Ben.
The Curly One.
The lamb shaped nuisance.
The Smoky One’s new companion.

I will say this carefully. I preferred The Smoky One without him.

He is small. Woolly. Short legged. Loud for no reason. He barks at air, doors, shadows, and occasionally his own reflection. He looks like a decorative footstool that has learned to shout.

He does not live here.

This is worse.

He visits on Sundays now. With The Smoky One. As if this is a package deal we all agreed to.

He was introduced to the room as if we would all be pleased.

The Golden Menace was thrilled. Tail wagging. Whole body bouncing. Immediately over friendly. The Curly Intruder attempted confidence for approximately seven seconds before retreating behind The Smoky One’s legs, where he barked loudly from a position of safety.

I observed all of this from the sofa arm, unmoved.

The Curly Intruder explored next. Every corner. Every cushion. Every smell that did not belong to him. He barked at the lilac octopus. He barked at the door. He barked at nothing at all. The Smoky One called this “settling in”.

At one point, he discovered his own reflection in the oven door and issued a warning to it. The reflection did not back down. I respected neither of them.

The Golden Menace attempted friendship repeatedly. Toys were offered. Faces were licked. Boundaries were ignored. The Curly Intruder responded with more barking, then promptly hid again, as if surprised by his own bravery.

This happened several times.

Later, food appeared.

Roast chicken. Torn into slices. Carefully handed out.

The Curly Intruder received four.
I received one.

I would like this noted.

The Curly Intruder then pushed his tiny head between the bars of the stair gate, just to see if he could. He could. The Golden Menace attempted to follow and became confused by his own size.

The Curly Intruder was squished more than once. Entirely by accident. The Golden Menace is very large, very enthusiastic, and unaware of his own strength. The Curly Intruder squeaked. Everyone said “awww”.

I did not feel sorry for him. He had already eaten four pieces of chicken.

Later, The Curly Intruder attempted to sit where I sit.

This was corrected without words.

The Smoky One laughed. The Blonde One said we would “all get used to each other”. The Tall One slipped off to bed for a nap due to “too much bouncing and noise”. I joined him with a large sulk.

I noticed The Golden Menace lay down beside The Curly Intruder and watched him breathe, intensely.

Two caramel coloured dogs. Side by side. Comfortable. Content.

An alliance.

The Curly Intruder eventually fell asleep, curled tightly, twitching, exhausted by his own existence.

I tried to nap, but stayed awake.

Wondering what this alliance meant for me.

What I do know is this.

This one would be trouble.

The Present No One Wanted

On one of those cooler afternoons, The Tall One and The Golden Menace were out.

The Blonde One sat on the sofa, tapping at her laptop with the patio door open in front of her. Cool air poured in, bold and unnecessary. The house felt calm. Balanced. Unguarded.

I went outside anyway.

Pickle followed me. Briefly.

We crossed toward the golf course, where the grass grows wild and the smells feel older, heavier, more important. Pickle attempted bravery. She lasted minutes. Something startled her. She got dirty. Her bow disappeared somewhere between confidence and regret.

She ran home at once, crying and offended, dignity in ruins.

I stayed.

What happened next is being misrepresented.

I did not find something.
I secured something.

When I returned home, I did so at speed.

Straight to the bottom of the staircase. This is where important things are presented. I dropped my offering carefully and sat beside it, chest out, tail neat.

The Blonde One looked up at exactly the wrong moment. The laptop flipped mid air as she screamed the highest pitched scream I have ever heard. The voice on the screen continued calmly.

Her boss.
Still speaking.
Still professional.

I had brought her a present.

It was a rat!

Brown. Vast. Hairy beyond reason. I will be honest. It was enormous. Almost as big as me. My jaw ached from carrying it. This is the price of excellence. Worth it.

The Blonde One scrambled backwards.

The voice from the laptop took charge instantly. Calm instructions followed. Slowly. Step by step. Get some cardboard. Use a stick. Don’t touch it directly. Breathe. It’s fine. Just place it over gently.

I did not understand the panic. What was all the fuss about.

This is what one brings inside when one has done well.

Eventually, The Tall One returned. He was informed there was a situation. He dealt with it efficiently.

The body vanished. How, I do not know? Comet has similar vanishing skills. I would like answers.

The patio door was closed. Permanently.

Pickle sulked indoors for the rest of the day, bowless and traumatised.

The Golden Menace would not leave the bottom stair alone. He sniffed. He circled. He returned repeatedly, confused and hopeful, as if expecting it to reappear.

I was checked several times to confirm I was “still alive”.

I was told I was “very brave” and also “never doing that again”. Mixed messages. Ungrateful ones.

Slippergate

Then came the slippers.

The Blonde One’s slippers, to be specific. Slip on mule style. Soft suede. Honey coloured. Warm looking. The sort of slipper that exists to be trusted. They had lived in the living room for months, untouched, respected, quietly doing their job.

Perhaps that was the problem.

The Golden Menace did not nibble them.
He did not test them.
He did not gently chew a corner.

He attacked.

The entire back was gone. Gone completely. Chomped clean away like a shark attack on a surfboard. What remained looked less like footwear and more like evidence.

The Blonde One was not impressed. There were words. Big ones. The kind that echo slightly and involve pointing.

The Golden Menace looked pleased with himself.

This was not hunger.
This was not boredom.
This was not confusion.

This was taste.

He liked them because they were soft. Because they were warm. Because they were caramel coloured. Familiar. Inviting.

For a moment I wondered if he had mistaken them for The Curly Intruder. I dismissed this thought and made a note to never turn my back on him again.

The Tall One reacted quickly. He gathered every trainer he owned and carried them upstairs like precious artefacts. From that day on, his Nikes did not linger downstairs. He learned quickly.

The Golden Menace watched this rearranging with interest but no remorse.

The Granny Hotline was consulted.

She advised not to worry. She said these things happen. Dogs go through puppy phases. She said she would sort it.

The next Sunday, she arrived with gifts.

Dreamies. Orange packet. For me.
Brand new slippers. For The Blonde One.

Justice, briefly.

The Golden Menace was deeply confused by the appearance of the new left slipper. He sniffed it. He circled it. He checked the air around it as if trying to work out how it had returned.

The Curly Intruder took credit.

I would like to be very clear about this.

He did not buy them.
He did not contribute.

No boy. You did not fix this.

I accepted my Dreamies with dignity. The new slippers were moved carefully out of reach. The Golden Menace sulked. I slept lightly.

The Consequences of Bare Socks

The garden was quiet.

Too quiet.

The Tall One stepped outside in socks to hang the washing out. He carried a large, ambitious pile. His vision was compromised. Pyjamas draped over one arm. Towels slipping. A sock clenched between his teeth.

There was a pause.
A look down.
A slow inhale.

Then the sound.

A soft, unmistakable squelch.

This was followed by a high pitched scream, which felt inappropriate for a man of six foot three with muscles and confidence. The Next Door Neighbour later claimed to have heard it through an open window and assumed we had our niece over.

The Golden Menace watched from the patio doors, head tilted, tail wagging softly, like Dennis the Menace observing a prank land perfectly.

The Tall One dramatically hopped on one foot.

He attempted to remove the sock with one hand while holding the washing with the other. This did not go well. Underwear began to fall. Gym shorts fluttered to the ground. A vest made a break for freedom.

The Blonde One appeared out of nowhere, arms flailing, attempting to catch items mid air while shouting instructions that were not helpful. More washing fell. The Tall One continued hopping, face frozen, dignity leaking away.

Eventually, he removed the sock with extreme caution.

It was inspected once, briefly, then launched over the garden gate towards the bins in disgust.

The Golden Menace tried to catch it in full flight, but thankfully missed.

The Tall One returned inside and stood in the kitchen, one barefoot, staring into the middle distance as if reassessing his life choices.

Later, Jasper found the sock.

Jasper told everyone. Jasper can be such a gossip.

By evening, it was being discussed openly that there was a dirty sock hanging by our garden gate. This was framed as shameful. A warning. A scandal.

I do not feel shame.

It was not shame. It was a marker.

Like the skeleton heads on bridges or spears outside castles.

Do not enter.
You will step in shit.

The sock vanished eventually. No one admitted removing it.

The Golden Menace continued to sniff the garden decking for days afterwards.

Some lessons must be learned the hard way.
Others should be left where they land.

Sundays, Restored (Mostly)

September Sundays got slightly better.

Lazy mornings and long naps. Me tucked in close. Purrrfect.

I loved it when my humans stayed longer in the bedroom just to cuddle me. My favourite place. No wet noses or fluffy golden tails. Golden Menaces weren’t allowed past the stair gate.

This usually only happened on Sunday mornings, so I snuggled in tightly.

The Curly Intruder had his injections this month, which apparently unlocked walking privileges. Sunday walks were now allowed.

Walks followed.
Blissful silence followed with them.

I took what I was given at this point. Power naps all the way.

Outside, The Golden Menace and The Curly Intruder walked together. Side by side. The Curly Intruder trotted proudly, as if he belonged, until their leads tangled. Every two minutes. They zig‑zagged across the paths, stopping suddenly, reversing direction, wrapping themselves together like festive ribbon.

They were a nightmare, The Smoky One said. They passed The Robe Ranger’s house. She was already out, floral dressing gown firmly secured, watching with interest. The leads tangled again. The Golden Menace bounced. The Curly Intruder squeaked. The Robe Ranger nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something she had suspected for some time.

Inside, I slept.

Later, they returned. Tired. Content. Tangled in a different way.

The Golden Menace lay down beside The Curly Intruder. The Curly Intruder accepted this. They slept.

Sleeping buddies.
Walking buddies.

I watched from the arm of the sofa, eyes half closed, pretending not to care.

Sundays were slightly quieter now.

But not safer.

I stay alert.

Conclusion

September taught me several things.

That calm is often a trick.
That visitors bring change, whether invited or not.
That slippers are temporary.
That socks should never be trusted in gardens.

And that Sundays, if protected properly, can still be sacred.

I learned to nap lightly.
To watch closely.
To accept small victories when they appear.

I allow October to approach. Cautiously.