Story 123: Mrs Higgins Dreams of a Life Without Reza Shadey

Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a rather strange tale about a dream Mrs Higgins had one very quiet night. It was a dream so peaceful, and so terribly sensible, that she woke up laughing and went straight to check the cat flap.

In the dream, Mrs Higgins was standing in her garden. At first, everything looked perfectly ordinary. The sun was shining on the paving stones, the hydrangea was nodding politely to the fence, and the washing was fluttering gently on the line.

But then, Mrs Higgins noticed something odd. The washing was... behaving itself. No socks were making a run for it. No shirts were covered in muddy paw prints. The sheets hung there, crisp and clean, without a single smudge of "Reza da Vinci" artistic mud. Mrs Higgins pegged out a pillowcase with a calm smile. "How efficient", she thought. "And how... quiet."

She looked around. Penelope, the fluffy white cat from next door, was sitting on the windowsill. Usually, Penelope would be rolling her eyes at someone's silly plan or sighing at a chaotic scheme. But today, she sat perfectly still, her tail curled neatly around her paws like a fluffy question mark.

"Good morning, Mrs Higgins", Penelope meowed politely. "The garden perimeter is secure. Nothing of note has happened. I shall continue my silent observation."

Mrs Higgins blinked. "That's nice, dear", she said. But it felt a bit... flat. Like a cup of tea without a biscuit.

Under the rose bush, Ginger Tom was asleep. He wasn't snoring loudly. He wasn't dreaming of chasing sausages. He was just... sleeping. Quietly. Efficiently. No one was poking him to ask for "snack backup". No one was demanding he act as a "thermal output specialist". His dreams were long and empty, full of quiet biscuit mountains that didn't argue back.

Then, Tiger appeared. Usually, Tiger arrived like a furry cannonball — BOING! ZOOM! CRASH! But in this dream, Tiger walked. He didn't bounce. He didn't zing. He simply... trotted. He found a leaf on the grass. He picked it up. He put it down.

"I have moved the leaf", Tiger stated calmly. "Task complete."

Mrs Higgins felt a strange wobble in her tummy. "Is that it, Tiger?" she asked. "Don't you want to... pounce? Or maybe knock over a watering can?"

Tiger tilted his head. "Why would I do that? That would be untidy."

Even Button, the little tabby who used to be a laundry thief, was there. He was sitting under the hedge, neatly arranging a pile of socks by colour. "Red. Blue. Grey", he murmured. "A perfectly organised collection. No drama. No sash. No gala."

Days seemed to pass in the dream. The garden was perfect. Problems resolved themselves quietly. Friction smoothed away. Mrs Higgins finished her tea without spilling it once. She didn't have to rescue anyone from a tree, or a basket, or a "flying machine".

It was neat. It was balanced. And it was dull as a rainy Tuesday.

And that's when Mrs Higgins realized what was missing. It wasn't a hole — holes suggest something is lost. It was just an absence. A flatness. Like a song without a chorus.

There was no Reza Shadey.

He wasn't lost. He wasn't hurt. In this dream-world, he simply... wasn't there. And the garden didn't notice. It didn't grieve him. It just continued, efficient and boring.

Mrs Higgins felt a sudden pang. Not of fear, but of boredom. She missed the dramatic sighs. She missed the accusations shouted at innocent squirrels. She missed the "Emergency Meetings" behind the compost bin. She missed the chaos.

Just as the quiet became unbearable, the dream suddenly cracked.

A sudden breeze lifted the washing. A sock slipped from the line. And a familiar, booming voice burst into existence mid-sentence:

"...and therefore, CLEARLY, this is the work of INVISIBLE SOCK GOBLINS!"

Mrs Higgins's eyes snapped open. She was in her bed. It was morning. And from downstairs, she heard a very real, very loud crash.

"CLATTER-BANG!"

Followed by an outraged yowl: "MRS HIGGINS! The service in this establishment is slipping! My breakfast bowl is only HALF full! This is a scandal of international proportions!"

Mrs Higgins started to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. She padded downstairs, still chuckling, and checked the cat flap.

And there he was. Reza Shadey. His fur was a bit ruffled, he had a cobweb on one ear, and he was looking at her with total, utter indignation. Penelope was behind him, rolling her eyes. Ginger Tom was yawning. Tiger was bouncing off the walls.

"Fear not!" Reza declared, puffing out his chest. "I have arrived to supervise the kitchen! You may commence the tuna!"

Mrs Higgins fetched the pâté, her heart feeling full and happy. "Well", she said fondly, stroking his magnificent (and demanding) head. "That was a very silly dream. I think I prefer the noise."

Reza Shadey purred, a loud, rumbling sound like a tractor in a library. He had absolutely no idea that a world without him had been briefly imagined... and quietly rejected. After all, who else would keep the garden so wonderfully, delightfully chaotic?

Night night. Sleep tight.