Smudge’s Diaries: October 2025

A Brief Return to Normality

At the start of October, something miraculous happened.

The Blonde One left. She went away with Granny to Blackpool, abandoning her usual sofa perch where she sits with her laptop, radiating stress and vanilla. This alone was unsettling.

But then it got better.

The Golden Menace was also removed from the house and sent to stay with a dog groomer called Posh Paws. A name that suggests standards. I approved.

The house fell silent.

No crashing.
No barking at nothing.
No toys screaming underfoot.

I reclaimed rooms that had been occupied unfairly. I stretched fully, without interruption. I slept deeply, diagonally, luxuriously. I experienced peace.

This is how life should be.

With the enemy gone, I did what any sensible cat would do. I explored. Specifically, I nose dived into the toy mountain he has been quietly building underneath the coffee table. I skated across the living room on abandoned rope toys. I scented everything. Everywhere. Thoroughly.

It was like that film where the human child realises he is home alone and instantly makes questionable choices. I watched things I’m normally told I’m “not interested in”. I bounced where bouncing is discouraged. I entered spaces that used to be guarded. I indulged.

For a brief, shining moment, civilisation returned.

It did not last.

Toy Heaven is Real and it is Full

Peace, as it turns out, is temporary.

The Blonde One and Granny eventually returned from Blackpool, and with them came a carrier bag. A carrier bag that smelled faintly of seaside wind, rock, and something sticky that once lived in a paper bag.

Inside were toys.

I barely acknowledged them. I was still grieving the loss of silence.

Not one toy. Not a sensible toy. A collection of toys.

This is where things went wrong.

I am not exaggerating when I say he destroyed every single toy. In one day. One. Day.

I observed from a safe distance, conducting what I can only describe as a behavioural study.

First went the green avocado. Brutally.

Then the grey rope ball. He attempted to eat it, as if it were dinner. It was confiscated mid‑chew.
The Tall One shook his head. Slowly. The way a man does when he realises arguing is pointless.

By nightfall, Toy Heaven was full.

Giant tennis ball. Gone.
Giant furry caterpillar. Gone.
Add to his collection: red triceratops. Footballs. Flamingos. Frisbees. Plush elephants. Ducks. Penguins. Every zoo animal you can think of. All deceased.

If Sid from Toy Story lived here, he would nod once, approvingly, and step aside. The destruction was fast. Efficient. Completely without remorse.

This, naturally, led to rows.

The Tall One muttered about money being “thrown straight in the bin” and suggested that if The Golden Menace couldn’t look after his things, he shouldn’t have them at all. The Blonde One defended him, citing joy, boredom, and “he’s only a baby.”

I stayed silently smug.

My toys, you see, stay pristine.

My feather teaser is intact. My scratch post stands proud. They smell faintly of roses. Like me. Because I am a good girl. Perfect, in fact. I do not rip limbs off my belongings and scatter them across the living room like a crime scene.

The Golden Menace can’t reach my things.

And I intend to keep it that way.

The Platter Incident

October also brought scary films.

I do not watch them. I hear them.

The screaming. The violins. The sudden loud noises that suggest someone has made yet another avoidable mistake. The Blonde One hides behind cushions. I stay composed.

Scary films, however, come with themed snacks.

This is acceptable.

On this particular evening, a Halloween platter was prepared and then, crucially, left unattended. Not entirely unattended. The Blonde One was technically there, but she was shielding her face with a cushion and whispering “don’t go in there” at the television. The Golden Menace, meanwhile, slept through the entire thing. Unbothered. At peace. A psychopath.

I seized my moment.

Comet has been coaching me. Act fast. Act invisible. Then run.

I extended a paw. Silent. Precise. I secured what I believed to be meat.

A triumph.
A victory.
A reminder that patience is always rewarded.

It was not meat.

I will not discuss this further.

Some lessons are learned once.

Halloween and the Night of a Thousand Knocks

Halloween arrived loudly.

The house was suddenly full of leaves that were not meant to be indoors. Pumpkins appeared on tables, shelves, and surfaces previously reserved for calm, neutral objects. When I say pumpkins, I mean decorative pumpkins, real pumpkins, pretend pumpkins, and something made of wicker that I deeply mistrusted. I felt like I was living on a small farm.

Not my idea of a living room.

The Blonde One was thrilled. She scattered autumn everywhere and called it “cosy”. Skeletons were introduced. A full skeleton family, in fact. There was a human skeleton, a bird skeleton hanging above the front door, and a dog skeleton.

No cat skeleton.

I noticed.

On the actual night, lanterns were lit, bowls were filled, and the front of the house was prepared like a shrine to chaos. Then the knocking began.

When I say knocking, I mean knock after knock after knock.

This neighbourhood is extremely popular with the children. Last year, I heard Pickle got egged. She has never fully recovered. The doorbell rang constantly. Children shouted “trick or treat” with alarming confidence. Faces appeared at the window. I was trying to nap.

I found it all deeply unnecessary.

Then came the ultimate betrayal.

I was dressed.

As a bat.

Bat wings. On my body. I did not consent to this. I have never expressed an interest in aviation. I do not even like jumping down from high places unless I’ve planned it properly. The Blonde One claimed I “looked cute”. I stared into the middle distance and dissociated.

The Golden Menace, meanwhile, was dressed as a literal teddy bear. A bright red heart‑shaped TY tag hung proudly around his neck. People laughed. Took photos. Praised him. Told him how handsome he was.

I watched. Judging silently.

The door continued to open and close. The knocking did not stop. The wings stayed on far too long. Eventually, the lights went out and the house settled.

Halloween ended the way it began.

With me unimpressed, overdressed, and surrounded by pumpkins.

Two Weeks of Suffering for No Reason

Despite appearances, The Golden Menace has been out on walks for some time.

This does not mean he can go anywhere.

He can’t be taken to cafés. He can’t be taken to busy places. He can’t be taken past other dogs, bins, bicycles, or a leaf that moves with confidence. His behaviour on a lead is best described as unhinged optimism.

So the Tall One made a decision.

He announced he was going to lead train him properly. Every evening. Without fail. For two weeks. To see how far they could get.

I admired the commitment. I feared the outcome.

There was no harness. Only a rope slip lead. Simple. Honest. Brutal.

The moment the front door opened each evening, The Golden Menace launched himself forward like a kangaroo escaping captivity. There was no warm up period. No adjustment phase. Just immediate leaping, zig‑zagging, and relentless pulling, as if the pavement itself had personally offended him.

The Tall One is a big man. A strong man. By day three, he was complaining that his wrists hurt. By day five, his hands. By the end of week one, he was rotating his shoulders beforehand like an athlete preparing for impact.

And still, every evening, he persisted. Rain included. Progress expected.

Progress did not arrive.

From my upstairs perch, I watched the routine repeat. Out the door. Immediate chaos. The rope taut. The Golden Menace bouncing sideways, forwards, diagonally. Never straight. Never calm.

By week two, things somehow deteriorated.

He pulled harder.
He zig‑zagged wider.
He developed new techniques.

Sudden stops. Dramatic sits. Refusing to move unless bribed. Spinning in tight circles like he’d forgotten which direction reality lived in.

The street became familiar with them.

Gwen the Moon Watcher appeared regularly, gliding past at the same time each evening, her presence silent and observant. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. She nodded sympathetically, as if witnessing a long‑running project fail in real time.

One evening, The Golden Menace lost his footing entirely and blamed the lead.

He lunged.
He spun.
He wrapped the lead around The Tall One’s legs like a deliberate attack.

The Tall One stood still, rope in hand, staring into the middle distance.

And after all of this effort, all of this discipline, all of this pain…

He still would not poop outside.

Not once.

He would hold it. Heroically. Stubbornly. Through the entire ordeal. Only to return home, trot into the garden, and relieve himself promptly, as if nothing unusual had happened.

I find this deeply suspicious.

I, of course, conduct my own outdoor business with elegance, using The Topless Gardener’s soft grass patch. Atlas never notices.

Civilised. Refined. No slip lead required.

Two full weeks passed.

Training occurred.
Strength was tested.
Nothing was achieved.

In fact, The Golden Menace is now worse on a lead than when he began.

I consider this an impressive failure.

Conclusion

October taught me this:

Costumes are humiliating.
Silence is precious.
Platters are traps.

And no matter how many candles are lit, how many leaves are scattered indoors, or how much effort is applied with a rope slip lead, chaos will always find a way back in.

November looms.

I am quietly optimistic.
I know what’s coming.

The Golden Menace does not.