I’m wrestling. Mum’s got me in a half nelson, trying to get right boob in my mouth, but right boob is evil and must be stopped. I will gladly sing into it, but I will not partake of its vile juices. Not today anyway. I’ve twisted my head so far round I’m in danger of falling off Mum’s lap. Mum pulls on my arm to bring my head swinging back around and I screw my face up in such extreme agony (I learnt that from TV – Mum’s fault for lazy parenting) she thinks she’s broken my arm and pulls me up into a life-affirming, left-boob-loving, hug-of-extreme-deliciousness, and I win.
Hoot witnessed this tussle and doesn’t look impressed. (I don’t think he likes me very much.) I poke a finger into right boob just to make sure Mum knows there’re no hard feelings. It feels like a basketball made out of cement. She should really do something about that.
I can feel a poonami approaching. I know it’s a poonami because:
- I haven’t pooed in four days (I overdid the prime rump).
- Mum and Dad bought me a new sippy cup with a princess on it and I refuse to drink out of it and they haven’t noticed. Princesses are stupid. So are sippy cups. So are Mum and Dad.
- Hoot is agitated. (Hoot has a sixth sense about poo. Mum and Dad haven’t worked this out yet. They’re very slow off the mark sometimes. See 2.)
- Grandma sent me Wagner.
Wagner is like the biggest ski slope in the world and all along the sides of it are the best, most magical things you could ever imagine (like a giant jumping thing tied to another giant jumping thing, made out of cake) and as you ski down it you try and grab all the magical things that are whizzing past your head. It’s two parts bliss and one part terror. This is why Wagner is music to poo to. Grandma didn’t teach me that per se, but she did plant the seed by sending me Wagner in a particularly poo-incident filled week – the week Mum introduced lentils if I’m not mistaken.
Wagner wrote Ride of the Valkyries. It’s about tough women who carry dead men. It’s not for the faint of heart. If you are feeling a bit fainthearted, or you’ve had too much prime rump, it can be a sphincter-popping experience. Hoot LOVES it. He runs around the house like he’s a cheetah, but with his fur all puffed up so he looks like a cushion with eyes and a tail. D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-DAAAAH-dum, d-da-da-DUM!! It’s hilarious!
When Grandma sent me Ride of the Valkyries Mum played it in my room and turned it up loud because of education. I shat my pants immediately. Except I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or a nappy. Everyone was feeling a little delicate after that. Except Hoot, he ran around like a cushion for ages and then fell asleep on Dad’s work pants. Pants are overrated anyway.
But I can feel a poonami building right now. This is four days of steak and sultanas and crushed garlic (mum left the jar out, I found it) and absolutely no water. I’m a desiccated Italian meatball locked in a hot car, minutes from exploding. Hoot knows it; he senses the countdown has already begun and is preparing his hind limbs for extreme slinkiness. Except Mum, without any cat senses, is putting new Wagner on, freshly delivered by the mailman, ready for education, and suddenly everyone is very confused. Because, instead of the prelude to Tristan and Isolde, Ride of the Valkyries comes blaring out of the speakers! Hoot puffs up into a cushion and then levitates in the air just as my sphincter pops and I burst into exploding-garlic-meatball-poo tears and Mum drops the coffee she’s carrying because Hoot’s claws are stuck into the flesh on her thighs and there’s blood coming out. What a kerfuffle!
Later, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I could hear Mum in the next room on the phone to Grandma. Here’s what they said: (I couldn’t hear Grandma of course, but I could work out what she was saying easily enough from what Mum was saying.)
“Mum, I had to pick sultanas and clumps of garlic out of her labia. It smelt like a five day old corpse wrapped in a garlic sauce kebab.”
“Oh darling, of course the world’s most precious baby didn’t smell like that. Her little fanny is the sweetest thing in the whole world.”
“I don’t understand why she doesn’t poo for days on end lately.”
“Because you’re a terrible parent who gave Cinnamon princesses and garlic when all she should get is cake.”
“Yes, but she’s now refusing one breast all the time, it’s so frustrating.”
“That’s because of singing and world domination, it’s not hard to understand darling. Just let her sing and give her cake.”
And then they talked about what to put on thigh welts and I fell asleep because of boredom.
What can I say? You failed. As a mother, as a slave, as a wife, as a human. Wagner is for valor, haute monde, lion-heartedness – not wailing, rivers of shit, third degree burns, and four-day-old intestinal garlic gas. You’ve dimmed my luminous soul. You’ve crushed my lion heart. I may never get over it. To begin the healing process here is my list of demands:
- Adopt out the mutant to a new home, or, if none can be found, an orphanage
- Three kilos of lightly seared maguro tuna
- My own TV
- (I’m willing to forgo the last two if you organise the first.)
Truly, I will never understand all these issues you’re having with the mutant’s fecal matter. Just buy the thing a box, put some sand in it, show the thing the box with the sand, let the thing work it out. Honestly, the amount of drama in this household is getting overwhelming. It’s bordering on dog-like. There, I said it. Do we really need to get overexcited by everything? Do we really need to lose control of our bowels? Must there be drool everywhere? You really think I chose to live here so I could end up living with a pack of dog impressionists? Think again, slave, think again.
I will be in my special place if anyone needs me. At the back, where your stinky, doggy arms can’t reach. You may leave the tuna at the entrance.
Thiha Archibald Hootentoot the Third