Training kids and cats

The smell hit me the second  I crossed the threshold into the bathroom. It was like being hit in the face with a fist full of anchovies. It was strong, fruity, inhuman. I gagged a little as I made my way inside to investigate.


Stinkier than Rotorua on a windy day. (Rotorua is a geothermal area in NZ that smells of rotten eggs, apparently the locals get used to the smell.

I have dealt with many disgusting messes over the 19 years I’ve been a parent and pet owner.  Ceilings painted with vomited baked beans, walls wallpapered with the sticky contents of a nappy, and cat sick adorning the mohair throw like cat biscuit boucle bobbles.

But I have never in my 44 years touring the smelliest, stinkiest hell-holes on this planet, (Rotorua in a wind, an abattoir without wind, pilchards fermenting in the bait bucket on the fishing boat) smelt something as bad and as boisterous as this!

My mind flirted with the dark possibilities. Could it be the three week old remains of a disembowelled pigeon, that one of the cats had furtively stashed in the linen cupboard? A beheaded rat dragged in from the countryside? Or doggy do trampled in on giant Labrador paws?

I tried to remember my nursing training. Everything smells better if you breathe through your mouth, especially draw sheets soiled with processed tripe from lunch. I grabbed the edge of my cardigan and drew it over my open mouth for safety. The smell was so strong it was almost chunky. I could see Bertie the germ from the toilet cleaner ads, whizzing around my head.

Back off Bertie!

Moving swiftly, I gingerly picked my way through the wet towels on the floor (love ya kids! Can you puhleeeze put the wet towels in the wash!) and the sides of the bath left over from the bathroom renovation. I peered under the bath. Nothing there. I cast my eyes behind the toilet. Nothing there. I paused before the porcelain white throne to consider the possibilities, looking down as I did so…

And. There. It was.

In a nice neat pile just before the toilet one of the cats (I suspect Monteith the Ocicat) had made a sizeable deposit. I grabbed some loo roll and reached down to withdraw the offending item, and then unceremoniously plonked it in the loo, tut-tutting as I did.

Don’t give me that cuteness crap, I suspect YOU Monteith!

Close pussy cat, but no cigar.

Next time, can you flush?

What do you think, is this star chart worthy behaviour? Clever cat, or naughty cat?


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