A Plonqmas Tail --------------- It never occurred to Plonq until much later that getting drunk for the holiday may have been a viable alternative. Instead he approached Christmas the way he always had, with bounce, vigour and misplaced optimism. The little feline sung carols while he tossed the last few strands of tinsel into the tree. "Yiffing in a winter wonderland..." he bellowed, making up in volume what he lacked in key. His cats, apparently unappreciative of his singing talent, yowled their protest in counterpoint and slunk out of the room as if their owner had become possessed. He adjusted a few last strands until the tree met his aesthetic approval and stood back to inspect his handiwork. "Very festive," he mewled happily. "This is going to be the best Christmas ever - not like last year, and the year before that, and... er, maybe I'd better go take dinner out of the freezer and start it thawing." The little snow leopard bounded out of the room to the kitchen and pulled his Christmas dinner out of the freezer. Plonq had vowed that he would have a REAL dinner this year, rather than his usual festive Kraft dinner. Although cooking was not one of his strong suits, science had paved the way for pathetic bachelors to enjoy all of the holiday trimmings with a new product called "Yule In A Bag". The picture on the front of the packet displayed a full course dinner, complete with browned turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, gravy and plum pudding. In spite of the dire "actual meal not exactly as pictured" disclaimer, and such unappetizing ingredients as "I can't believe it's not turkey", "instant powdered potatoes" and "melt & serve gravy", Plonq's hopes were high. "Yum!" he purred as he laid the bag in the sink to thaw. Well, that just left one more chore to complete before the big day. Yes, THAT chore. The little feline's cheery mood waned considerably as he plodded out to the dining room to finish his preparations. Strewn on the table were three sheets of paper and three stockings: a large one, and two tiny cat-sized ones. The sheets of paper bore the legends, "Good things I did this year", "Bad things I did this year" and "Morally ambiguous things I did this year that shouldn't count against me." Plonq sat down and examined the lists again, poring over each entry before he picked up the pencil, crossed out one of the items in the "bad" list and moved it over to the "morally ambiguous" one. "Much better." His enthusiasm renewed, he grabbed up the stockings and loped merrily into the living room where he stopped again when he spied the note pinned over the mantle. The note pinned over the mantle was written on a scrap of lined paper, taped where it had become torn over time, and pocked by the scars from innumerable thumbtacks. It bore a simple warning, scrawled in his messy handwriting: "Santa Claus is no more real this year than he was last year." Plonq clutched three stockings in his furry fist, nibbling on the trim of the largest while he read the note a second and third time. He growled uncertainly under his breath while something akin to logic ran through the Habitrail of his mind. Premise: every year I have hung stockings, and Santa Claus has never shown up. Premise: every week I buy a lottery ticket, and I have yet to win the jackpot. Conclusion: maybe Santa will come by this year. That seemed reasonable, but he couldn't suppress a sigh as he carefully removed the note from the mantle and folded it up for another year. He hung the socks in a row, affixing little labels over them reading, "Plonq, Pixil, Bit". He pondered for a moment over leaving the socks hanging as he had them, or if he should rearrange them so that the smaller socks were on either side of the larger. Certainly there would be a more pleasing symmetry in such an arrangement... BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ The smoke detector startled the little cat morph out of his reverie. "Oh no! My tuna-rum cake!" he cried, tripping over his own tail in his haste to turn toward the kitchen. He scampered the length of the house, wailing in time with the buzz of the alarm. Plonq could smell the burning cake well before he arrived in the kitchen and witnessed the mushroom cloud of smoke rising out of the oven vent. In a flurry of panic, he shut off the oven and cracked open the door to check the condition of his hapless cake. A fireball greeted him with a cheery, "WHOOMP" "Ack!" he exclaimed, slamming the oven door shut again. "Uh oh - this can't be good." The cat dashed over to the phone and frantically dialled. After a couple of rings he was greeted by a recorded voice. "Thank you for calling the 911 emergency response line. If you have a touch-tone phone, press ONE now. If you don't have a touch-tone phone, sorry." Plonq eyed his rotary phone in dismay for a second before he slammed down the receiver and ran to the living room. He literally pounced on the small pile of gifts under the Christmas tree and pulled out one of the parcels, tearing into its wrappings as he ran back toward the hall. By the time he returned he had finished unwrapping the touch-tone phone he had bought himself for Christmas, and had the cord uncoiled and ready to plug in. The moment he heard the dial tone, he called the emergency line again. "Thank you for calling..." "Our automatic call routing system will help us to customize our response to your particular emergency," droned the cheery voice at the other end of the line. "If you are calling about a violent crime in progress, press ONE. If you are calling about a non-violent crime in progress, press TWO. If you are calling about an injury to yourself, press THREE. If you are calling about an injury to somebody else, press FOUR. If you are calling about a fire, press FIVE. If you are calling about..." Plonq dithered for a moment - technically it was a fire AND a personal injury. He finally opted for the fifth option. "If you are calling about a fire that involves only property, press ONE. If you are calling about a fire in which people require rescue, press TWO. If you have set yourself on fire..." "If you have extinguished yourself, press ONE. If you are still on fire, press..." "Invalid entry, please re-enter that option. If you have extinguished the fire..." "If you have no appreciable fur, and only your clothes are on fire, press ONE now and the system will pause while you stop, drop and roll. If you have long fur, press TWO and the system will wait while you run to the shower. If you..." D'oh - the shower! The receiver dropped forgotten to the floor as the little snow leopard tore into the bathroom and leapt into the shower. It seemed that he had only been standing in the stream of cold water for moments when he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Minutes later the soggy morph opened the door for a pair of meerkat paramedics. "Geez, buddy, you're a real mess!" exclaimed one of the parametics who greeted him. "You better wait here while I get a stretcher." "That's okay, I can walk," mewled Plonq pathetically as he tried to brush past the paramedic. The other meerkat held up an arm to block him. "Let's get one thing straight here," he said, jamming a forefinger into the wounded snow leopard's muzzle, "We're the paramedics, you're the patient. Don't start telling us how to do our job. If we say you need a stretcher, then you need a stretcher. Heck, I bet you need a saline drip too. And a tensor bandage." "Oh yes, the tensor bandage!" agreed the first, "and the neck brace." "Ack!" "Don't worry, you're in good hands now," said the first meerkat as his partner ran out to the van for the stretcher and other supplies. "Say... is that a tuna-rum cake I smell? You wouldn't believe it, but this is the third call today because of one of those. Oh, are you planning to go into shock, or cardiac arrest? My partner is a trainee and needs the experience." "Ack again!" "I'll take that as a no," said the parametic sadly. The trip to the hospital was... interesting. Plonq wasn't sure if hitting the Taco Bell drive-through was standard procedure, but he remembered the paramedic's warning about not telling them how to do their jobs. It was not long, though, before the snow leopard was bathed, shaved, tagged, bandaged and planted in a burn ward with two other patients. As soon as the nurse left the room (after issuing an ominous warning that tests would follow shortly) one of the other occupants - a boar morph who looked almost mummy-like under his swath of bandages - hobbled over to greet the newest arrival. "Welcome to self-immolation central," he croaked, extending the hand that wasn't completely wrapped. "I'm Brett, and the guy in the bed there is Jimmy. He'd be happy to greet you too, but he's been in a coma for six months." "Um, Plonq," said the snow leopard, clasping the other fur's hand tentatively. "I burnt myself," he added. "Gee," said the boar, "I'm in here for an infected hangnail myself. Do you mind if I sit on your bed? It hurts like hell to stand." He seated himself on the edge of the feline's bed with a resigned sigh. "Hey, you're not bandaged up too bad. I've seen worse. What'd you do?" "I was baking a tuna-rum cake for Christmas," said Plonq. The boar shook his head. "Burned by Betty Crocker," he grunted. "I've heard about those things - must be an old mix. They pulled them off the shelves after the class-action suit. Heh. I got drunk and figured I'd work on my car. I was under the hood, pouring gas into the carb while a friend gunned the engine. Thought he'd be a wise-ass and gun it while I was pouring in the gas. Damn thing backfired and sprayed me with burning gas. Vinyl jacket, you know. You could read a newspaper by me for awhile." He chuckled dryly. "I have to warn you that they change my bandages twice a day. You'll know when they're doing it because I'll be screaming the whole time. Have you ever wondered what it feels like to have your flesh ripped away in strips? I don't wonder any more." "Erf, I'm sorry," said Plonq. "Aw, so am I," said the boar. "I hate laying this on you, but the nurses have heard it all before, and Jimmy, he doesn't say much. I'm scared, ya know? I'm going to be disfigured for life. It feels like I've been living in pain forever. Do you play chess?" "No," replied the cat. "Good," said the boar. "Let's wander down the hall to the lounge. I'm due for a changing soon and maybe it will take them longer to find me." The manoeuvre bought the boar five minutes of grace. Plonq didn't return to the room until long after the screams had subsided. "Merry Christmas," announced the nurse cheerily as she drew aside the blinds to let the crisp winter sunshine stream into the room. Plonq blinked blearily at the ceiling and tried to remember where he was, and why he smelled charred flesh and fur. "Confused, are we?" said the boar from his bed across the room. "Don't worry, that's just a side-effect of the morphine. You'll get used to it." "I've got some good news," enthused the nurse, clapping her hands eagerly. "The hospital kitchen has whipped up a special Christmas dinner for you. Of course, some of you can't eat solid food, so we had them puree it." She held up a bucket of... something. "Turkey, dressing - all the trimmings!" "Yum!" said Plonq, who found himself drooling in spite of the meal's unappetizing appearance. He scooped up a cup full of the broth while the nurse busied herself pouring a large helping into the comatose cheetah's IV drip. "Oh, and Plonq," she said, "the test came back. You've got first and second degree burns to about two percent of your body. Apparently that thick layer of anti-hairball formula in your fur acted as a fire retardant of sorts, so we're releasing you after lunch." She turned to the boar and added, "Your wife and kids are here to see you. I've sent them up to the lounge if you want to meet them." "I'm so outa here," said the boar, tossing aside his mug of Christmas dinner and leaping to his feet. "Ow!" He stopped by the snow leopard's bed and extended his good hand again. "Nice to have met you, buddy," he said wryly. "Sorry you couldn't stick around." "Um, good luck," said Plonq. "Get well." Moments later the snow leopard found himself alone in the room with the comatose cheetah morph. He sat in silence, sipping his meal before the quiet of the room began to bother him. The cat busied himself for awhile and then pulled up a chair beside the cheetah's bed. "Hi, I'm Plonq," he said cheerily. The cheetah did not respond. "Nobody coming to visit you, huh?" He brushed out one of the creases in the bed sheets. "Nobody coming to see me, either. My family, like, they're a long way away and stuff. None of my friends know I'm here, so I guess it's just you and me for Christmas." He stared at the cheetah in silence again for long minutes, watching the morph's chest rise and fall as he breathed. The cheetah's skin was riddled and grafted with scars and skin patches where it wasn't covered in bandages. "I bet you don't have any family here either, do you?" he asked. "It was one of those tuna-rum cakes, wasn't it? Us cats - we're our own worst enemies. The herbivores have got it easy, don't they? Nobody ever set himself on fire eating raw veggies and alfalfa. Don't you have any family or something? I mean, it's Christmas! I can't believe nobody has come in to see you. It isn't right to spend Christmas alone in a coma in a hospital. Well, you're not really alone since I'm here. Okay, you're alone." The little snow leopard sighed and tried to think of something more to say. The cheetah, for his part, inhaled and exhaled. "What do you dream about when you're in a coma?" asked Plonq rhetorically. "Are they happy dreams about having friends and family around? Is that why you don't wake up, because the dreams are better than what you'd wake up to?" The room lapsed into silence again while the seated cat looked into the impassive face of the comatose one. "Oh, I made you a card," purred Plonq. He turned and fetched a napkin from his bed table. "See? It already had little holly berries and bells on it, and it says Merry Christmas across the middle, so I just wrote To Jimmy, From Plonq, on it." He leaned across and draped it over the headboard of the immobile cheetah's bed. "I'll just hang it here for you." He wrinkled his nose in disapproval, "You can't really see the holly and bells if I do that, but I don't want it to fall down." The snow leopard tapped the side of his muzzle and tried to recall what else one normally did on Christmas. Ah yes, of course... "Here, let's sing some Christmas carols!" he mewled merrily. "I'm not too good with the words, but you can fill in the ones I don't know." "Silent night," he caterwauled, "Holy night! All is calm, all is bright. Round Virginia a mother and child..." he tapered off as quickly as he had started. "Ack! Sorry, that's as much as I know. Let's see if I can think of one that I remember the lyrics to." After a few minutes of pondering, the little snow leopard launched into another carol. Perhaps there was more repressed feeling behind the song than the little cat knew, or maybe he just got lucky, but when he resumed singing his soft voice hit every note right. Plonq wasn't even aware of the tear that soaked into the fur of his cheek while he sung. "I'll be home for Christmas," he purred in a surprisingly sweet tenor, "You can count on me. Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree. Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams. I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams." "Well, I gotta go," he said, rising from his seat with a sigh. "Nobody knows I'm here, and my cats are going to get hungry if I don't get home and feed them. Merry Christmas, Jimmy. I hope you get better." With those words the dumpy little cat toddled over to the closet to gather up the remains of his burnt clothing and disappeared out into the world. When the nurse returned an hour later to check on her patient, she uttered a chitter of exasperation. "Oh, I wish people would keep their hands off comatose patients," she said with an air of longsuffering. She carefully unclasped the still cheetah's paw and retrieved the crumpled napkin. "Oh, how sweet! He made you a Christmas card did he? Well, I'll just put it on the end table here for you. I see you've finished your dinner - would you like seconds before your bath?" Plonq arrived home to a house that smelled like burnt tuna-rum cake and snow leopard. He fed the cats - who were delighted to see him - and wandered straight off to bed to shake off the effects of the morphine. The little snow leopard never thought to check the stockings in the living room. Which is unfortunate.