Smudge Proof

Journal Entry

Some things are too tickly to face alone.

Tether set the feather down in front of the case and folded her hands in her lap.

“The rule is simple. You get a proper foot-tickling, though you may stop at any time.” She paused. “But if you stop… you fail.”

Smudge opened his mouth.

“If you really, truly, genuinely want the Sanctuary—if it matters to you both as much as you say it does—then this shouldn’t be a problem. Should it?”

Silence.

A deeply uncomfortable silence.

Smudge looked at the feather.

Biscuit pressed himself slightly further into the cushions.

Tether unfolded her hands and picked up the feather. “So,” she said at last, “who’s it going to be?”

Smudge looked at Tether.

Tether looked at the feather.

Biscuit looked at both of them and wanted no part in this whatsoever.

“Okay, okay,” said Smudge. “I’ll do it.”

Tether tilted her head. “Will you?”

“Yes,” said Smudge, with the confident air of someone who had feet made of tickle-proof steel.

Biscuit looked extremely concerned. He knew this was completely untrue. A few well-timed dog-tail tickles could send Smudge running. He had done it many times—especially when he wanted the sofa to himself.

Regardless, Smudge pulled off his socks, sat back, and put his feet up with great ceremony. Despite his considerable doubts, Biscuit settled in beside him and watched with great interest and full moral support.

Tether said nothing. She simply held the feather up and passed it gently from one hand to the other.

Without even touching his feet, Smudge smiled.

A small smile at first.

Then a bigger one.

Then his shoulders started going.

Then his whole face crumpled and an enormous, unstoppable laugh burst out of him—HA HA HA—and he curled sideways into the cushions clutching his stomach.

“Stop, stop,” he wheezed. “I can’t—I can’t take it—”

Tether lowered the feather. “Smudge.”

“I know, I know—” He sat up, wiped his eyes, and composed himself. “Right. Ready. I’m ready. I mean it this time.”

Tether raised the feather again.

Smudge lasted approximately one second before bursting into laughter.

“STOP.”

“I haven’t started yet.”

“I KNOW.” Smudge pressed his lips together. “It’s—it’s just the thought of it. It’s too much.”

“Smudge,” she said, not unkindly, “you understand that I have not actually tickled you yet.”

Smudge tried to say yes, but he was laughing too hard to answer properly.

“Not even a little bit,” Tether continued.

“I know.”

“Not only have I not touched you, but the feather is currently”—she held it up for inspection—“about three feet from your actual feet.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” said Smudge, who was now sitting with both feet tucked underneath him.

“I want to,” Smudge said. And he meant it—that much was clear. His face was earnest and sincere. “I genuinely, really, truly want to. I just…”

He paused and looked over at Biscuit. It was the kind of look that, if you were an actual biscuit, would mean you were about to be eaten.

Biscuit didn’t quite understand at first. He tilted his head. He looked at Smudge. He looked at the feather. He looked back at Smudge.

Then he understood.

Smudge smiled—the warm, hopeful smile of someone who was about to ask a terrible favour and knew it. He patted the chair beside him gently.

“Why don’t you just… sit here for a moment, Biscuit? Just get comfortable. Just—”

Biscuit was already backing away.

“Here, boy,” said Smudge, switching at once to the special voice reserved for walkies, treats, and other genuinely excellent things.

“Good boy. Good Biscuit. It’s just a chair. Nice chair. Friendly chair.”