For the Love of Litter

July 30, 2009

“Oh my Good God!”, shouts The Mushroom, “The Baby’s pooh is black!”

“No, it isn’t”, replies my Dad, “It’s green.”

“Look!”, says The Mushroom, “Black!”

“They’re cherries, love”, says my Dad, “And please move that nappy away from my face. Cheers.”

I understand this. I sniff my own pooh. Perfectly normal. Sniffing other creatures’ pooh, though, is grim. We’re not dogs. The Mushroom, however, does it all the time, proof to me that she is still a far way from normal. I don’t know if she sniffs everyone’s pooh, or just The Baby’s, but whenever The Baby does a pooh, she seems intent on getting her face very close to it. Maybe it’s like that tea leaf reading I saw a programme on a couple of years ago.

I have come to the conclusion that The Hippy is also obsessed with pooh. She is constantly referring to things as being ‘good shit’, and talks about people ‘getting their shit together’. Personally, I don’t go in for too much talk about bodily functions, but she seems to be fascinated by it. She also regularly says, ‘Shit, man!’, which I assume is some sort of command. I can’t pooh on demand. I’m fairly certain humans can’t either. I don’t understand. So far no one has, to my knowledge, poohed because she has told them to, but maybe they did it very quietly.

I have decided that the way to find out more about The Cave Troll is through The Hippy. It is clear that she is under some sort of spell. If I watch her for a day or so, perhaps I will find some clues. I spent the morning in the basement, but came out none the wiser. I was intent on spying on The Cave Troll, but, having tried it today, I have thought again about hanging around in the basement.

My Dad has moved my litter tray down to the basement. This I initially thought was a good thing, as it takes it away from the public thoroughfare that is the porch. Allow a cat some dignity. The final straw for me was the Cave Troll shouting, “Hey! Your kitty’s taking a dump!”.  There I was, poised, and the entire family come to look. I had no idea what they would do, knowing how both The Hippy and The Mushroom are obsessed with pooh. Eat it? Frame it? I was furious with him. I had planned then to leave a turdy deposit in one of his shoes, but he would know it was me and I am still not at the bottom of his magic, so I daren’t. In any case, after a bit of nagging from The Mushroom (which went along the lines of, ‘It’s unhygenic! It’s unhygenic! It’s unhygenic!” on a loop – what does she think I eat? Radioactive waste?), my Dad shifted it away from sensitive noses and prying eyes. The big advantage, though, is that it gave me an excuse to be in the basement. Watching. And listening.

And there was much to listen to today. Man With Missing Hair was back.

“IF YOU KNEW WHERE I COME FROM!”, he shouted, presumably at The Cave Troll, “MY LIFE IS HOES AND GUNS!”. Curious. See, we do know where he comes from. Krakow, in Poland. And why is his life a combination of gardening and shooting? And why is he shouting this at The Cave Troll? Is The Cave Troll torturing him to get information? Why? What’s in it for him? Does he think that by doing this he might get meatballs?

I sat, perched on the steps near my newly moved litter tray, listening for more clues, when I – and The Cave Troll – were disturbed by The Hippy, who, whilst meandering through on her way to something called the ‘Deep Freeze’,  alleged that the basement ‘smells of shit, man’, and at this, The Cave Troll growled, got up from where he was, and said if I left another gift near his ‘work’ I would get my ‘kitty ass kicked’.

Now, let me make this clear. I am a cat. Cats are hygenic – to a point. What a cat cannot do, not even bilingual, computer literate cats, is empty their own litter trays.  But even if  I could speak to tell him this, which I cannot, I was not about to hang around to be tortured like that poor Polish man.

So, my Smörgåsbord of missions remains. On top of this, I really must keep a closer eye on The Mushroom.

All was not lost. I caught a finch. I left it for my Dad on the porch.


5 Responses to “For the Love of Litter”

  1. Lorie said

    oh my god Anna, that one was one of the best yet!! LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!! I was pissing myself. not literally of course. that would be messy.. I rather enjoyed that the furless man from Krakow came back.. he always adds a bit of spice and interest. For the love of litter is hilarious and i can visually see in my own mind you saying, the “Its not hygenic!!!!” on a loop and “Oh my good God!!!-The Baby’s pooh is black!!!” Wow. How you remember all these conversations verbatim is beyond me but it sure makes good writing.. well done chick!


  2. Fayester said

    Oh Anna! I’m so glad I have discovered this. It’s a real day cheerer-uppererer(?) – thanks!

  3. Lorie said

    oh, and that made me scream with laughter about the mention of the ‘deep freeze’…. I have not heard this word for yonks. It is too funny when heard out of context. I realize how strange some of our Canadianisms are. Is there really such a thing as a ‘deep freeze?’ Or is this some abbreviation we’ve come up with for the bog standard freezer?


  4. ellen said

    Anna, this is great stuff…I sense a need for creative outlet amidst the wonders of domesticity and Mothering…who knows, you could be the next J.K. Rowling!! very clever and amusing!! Canada sounds fascinating. xo

  5. annablagona said

    when is the next one then?

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