Mocking bird

Disclaimer: I OWN TUGGER. No, that was a lie. A horrible, horrible lie.

I'm going to sit in the emo corner now.

Notes: This is for Violaunte's My favorite tom contest. I'm doing Gus.

Gus is not my favorite tom, but chances are nobody would have picked him,

And I thought he'd be fun to write about.

(If you can guess my top two favorite toms, I'll mention you in my next one-shot and my profile. If you can guess one… I'll mention you in mah next one-shot.

Eh heh. Just having some fun.)

Excuse my spelling errors. I'm too lazy to fix them… hope you can get what I'm saying.

Presto, away we go!

I am an old soul. I'm an old soul followed around by a happy, youthful mocking bird.

As I watch the kits and toms and queens play and romp around, the mocking bird coos, you wish you were them. You wish you could play with them. And it is right. I want, more than anything, to play with my grandchildren, to feel young again.

To once again, truly be Gus: The theatre cat.

I would give anything, anything, to be a young tom again. But my mocking bird, every time the thought crosses my mind, sings:

Too bad. And it is right.

Every night, when I am asleep, I become young again. I am at the theatre; I am running around with Deuteronomy and Grizabella. And they are young too. We are all young. We are all happy birds in a dreamland. A land of how things used to be.

But then the mocking bird appears, and whispers:

This is not real. And it is right.

I am old. And there's no getting around it. As much as I hate to admit it, it is true. I am old.

When I tell the kittens my stories, my voice raspy and hoarse, I cannot help but feel the smallest bit… envious. They listen to me so intently—eyes wide as saucers, mouths parted in awe. I used to be like that, when I was young. All those many, many years ago. When I was young. When the world was happy.

And when they praise me, the kittens, I feel happy. All that envy—all that horrible, misplaced envy—melts away. The mocking bird is gone, all is well.

But then he comes back and pecks me on the head, and tells me:

Time's running out. And he is right.

I am old. I am an old tom. The hourglass is running low, and no matter how much I try to ignore it, the mocking bird is there; ready to remind me of its existence.

And of death's existence.

Death is inevitable, inescapable. And it is waiting for me.

But I am an old man. I will welcome it. No matter what form it comes in. Peaceful sleep, a horrible disease. I will welcome it with open arms.

For when it comes, I will be young again. I will be free of this mocking bird. I will be young again.

When I open my eyes, see all the bustling cats, I cannot help but cry. But a single tears falls down my face, and with a shaky paw, I wipe it away. And I smile.

My youth is gone; my life is more than half over.

I am an old man. But I am okay, as long as my children and my children's children are all right. As long as the junkyard is in peace.

I am an old man, and I am all right.

Damn, I'm repetitive! Jesus!

How many times did I say, "I am old" or "I am an old man?"

Holy shit. How can you guys read this stuff?

Tee hee. Hope you liked, Violaunte. I know it was pretty pointless and probably won't place, but I enjoyed writing it.

I'd explain everything, but with this particular story, I want you guys and gals to interpret it however you want.

Au revoir!

P.S. Kudos to those who got my "Presto, away we go" thing above. Those lines were used in Old Possum's/T.S. Eliot's original Magical Mister Mistoffelees poem...

…but Tugger does not sing them. Dayum. They say "presto" once, damnit! (Frownyface)