I received a housecoat as a Christmas present years ago that was ill-fitting and not my style at all, but I had the gift-giver’s blessing to exchange it.  Unfortunately, January’s selection was so heavily picked over, I had trouble identifying its least ugly replacement.

At first I was simply glad to own a new robe and wore it with a sort of pride.  A new thing, a present!   I wore it every evening as I hunkered down on the sofa, cat in lap, to relax in front of the TV.  It felt like a big hug, warm and inviting.  Even Kaley the dog was interested in it judging by the amount of sniffing attention she gave it.  Soon, however, I started to notice that it was becoming somewhat…well,  uncomfortable which is exactly the opposite of what a good lounging garment was supposed to be.

A bit later, I became more aware of how heavy it was.  So much fabric that felt like it was dragging me down.  My old shoulder injury burned a bit when I had to heft it up onto its closet hook or lug the robe-laden laundry hamper up and down the stairs.   It took forever in the dryer; so dense that I dared not leave it out to dry naturally in case some kind of toxic mould might develop in the weeks needed to achieve complete dryness.

And then the nice cocoony feeling was replaced by being… a bit overwhelmed.  The thing encircled me two or three times, and it was getting increasingly difficult to pull around me, or disentangle myself from its folds when moving from a supine position to the upright.  I tripped on it occasionally too.

And so hot.  This greatly exacerbated the intensity of my hot flashes – I was sure that blisters were erupting all over my body when I couldn’t get it off fast enough!   Jinx still sat on my lap but got her claws stuck in the terry cloth.  She couldn’t seem to figure out how to extricate herself, and my assistance only seemed to piss her off.

As time went by, even the robe’s colour started to annoy me.  Unattractive Bleech Blue.  Not quite navy, not quite royal.  Just Bleech.  Its fabric took on the feeling of scratchy motel linens (was this why the rash developed on my extremities?) while the terry part was pulled to pieces from my battles with my feline.  Blue stringy bits were unknowingly jettisoned all over the house, later to be horked up along with hairballs during the night.  When this spluttering woke me up, it was too much bother to hoist my robe on before cleaning up the mess despite the chill.

More mornings than not found me tense and a bit paranoid.  As I innocently cooked my breakfast on the gas stove all I could think of was Tony Soprano’s TV girlfriend doing the same for him while he schemed how to break up with her. Her billowy kimono sleeves came in contact with the open flame, quickly engulfing her arm and face in an unforgettable fiery scene.  (Yes, he still broke up with her, but the burn part was what caught my attention.)  I compulsively rolled up my own sleeves to prevent the same fate, unable to remove those disturbing images from my psyche.

Jinx now seemed drawn to the robe, but not from her former lap spot.  She would sneak up behind me on the couch, picking and poking at it, sometimes slicing my skin underneath.  Frequently she’d get claw-pinned to the robe but that positioning made it even harder to free her.  I’d get scratched during the struggles, and she would skulk then avoid me for hours.  I often found her hiding in my closet, the robe on the floor though I was certain it had been hung securely.

The robe was beaten up and straggly despite my care.  The old paint smear seemed to be growing, mutating.  Where did it come from?  I couldn’t remember.  I hadn’t the gumption to wipe off the toothpaste stain from the collar or drag the thing down for yet another washing.  I’d lost my energy, my drive.  I stayed home more, showered less often and the desire to wear nice things or put on make-up was diminished.  It was just easier to stay home in the housecoat.

The belt became frayed to the point that sometimes I struggled to get it unravelled before bed.   I tripped on the hem going up the stairs more and more often.  And then not even on the stairs.  I fell.  A lot.  Dark bruises littered my knees which matched my garment and the dark circles under my eyes.  I was sleep deprived and miserable.  The sleeves began to droop towards the burners while I fried my eggs.  Jinx started eyeing me funny.  The lightbulb burned out in my closet.  Kaley kept her distance in the evenings.  My slippers went missing.  I forgot my computer passwords…

In a moment of clarity, I realized its power over me.  Wearing the housecoat had infected me with schlumpedness, sucked out my vitality, and oh my – actually threatened my well-being!  I knew I had to get it off me, and NOW!   I struggled, panicked at my inability to free myself from belt knots I didn’t remember tying.  I had trouble breathing.   I pulled, tugged, and finally with one big yank I almost pulled free, but somehow in the melee the sash wound its way around my neck.  I didn’t want to believe it was true, but it tightened itself around me like a python.  Squeezing and squeezing the breath from my lungs, holding my trachea hostage until…. until…..

I woke up sprawled on my kitchen hardwood, dazed and disoriented, cold in my short nightie.  The French doors banged loudly in the night wind.  The light had vanished, and I had no inkling of what time it was.  A dark figure stood above me, panting, and I could smell the harsh stench of its breath.

I froze, gasping with terror, my throat scratchy and sore.  My eyes adjusted to the dim just as the shadow whined.  It sounded … familiar.  The muzzle that nudged me was Kaley’s.  Faint with relief, I reached for her but she yelped.  My hands felt wet and sticky from her coat.  What was happening?  I managed to kneel upright on sore knees, dizzy, teetering for a moment, reaching, grasping for the kitchen light.

Kaley’s soulful eyes met mine in the sudden fluorescence.  Her soft fur was matted with blood.  Remnants of the belt dangled from her mouth like a dead squirrel while her breathing laboured on.  The housecoat lay in a heap nearby, crumpled and still. Whatever lifesblood it had contained drained out onto the floor in a pool of stagnant goo.  Indigo canine prints detailed the map of the struggle between robe and beast, a twisting, turning dance to the death.

After a week had passed, the crusting had all come out of Kaley’s coat and she quit limping.  The vet said she was lucky.   My bruises faded to yellow-green, and it no longer hurt to swallow.  The curious friend who helpfully replaced the jambs on the French doors was unsatisfied by my lies about how they got busted from the inside.  I  avoided his gaze or further interrogation by giving the kitchen floor a scrubbing of epic proportions.

I could almost forget what had happened without the third or fourth martini.  Until a clear, lovely, bright October day which transformed my yard into a paintable fall canvas.  Soaking up the sun on my deck, something moving caught my eye.  Up, way up in my gnarly old mountain ash was a raggedy blue terry belt hanging eerily from a broken branch, a bloodied limp nuthatch clutched in its strings.