I Could Have Sworn I Flushed That

In the ensuite toilet was a turd - no, not a human turd, but a cat turd. I'm sure I flushed that. Dang things float.

'Go down', I commanded as I pushed the flush button - again.

When we adopted Rocky, a ginger and white kitten, the RSPCA instructed us to raise him as an inside cat - for his own good. There are cat-haters that deliberately try to run cats over and killer dogs - nearly every household has at least one dog, including us.

Many Australians hate cats because cats kill wildlife. There wasn't much wildlife when we lived in New Zealand, so everyone had cats that went where they liked.

Here in Queensland, Australia, cats were mainly kept in bird aviaries (without the birds) or indoors. The only 'wildlife' at risk of being killed by our cat were cockroaches and small geckos that managed to sneak past the fly-screens.

There was even the risk of wildlife eating our cat. Sometimes in the media, there would be an item about some poor cat being swallowed whole by a python. One even had a picture of an x-ray of a snake containing a cat skeleton complete with collar and bell. Pythons also feast on possums.

Rocky missed his chance at killing a bird that came down the chimney. I came home, and there was a bird inside, with evidence it had been in every room except the room that Rocky was sound asleep in. The door to the fireplace was open, and there was no other way a bird could have gotten in.

A few weeks later, on christmas eve, another bird came down the chimney and was stuck. We opened the fireplace door, and Rocky went to investigate. We joked he was looking for Santa. I had to put my hand up the chimney to dislodge the bird. Rocky wasn't impressed that I released it outside.

Raising an inside cat has one very stinky downside - a litter tray ready to receive stink bombs. Last time we had to use a litter tray was temporarily if we moved house, with our previous cat. Crazy old neighbour thought the cat turds were from our pet rats.

It was much easier training our dog not to kill his own cat than to train a cat to do anything.

We spent the price of several bags of cat food on a Litter Kwitter cat training toilet seat with the hope of doing away with a litter tray. Maybe in small print it said, no guarantees. Our cat liked to sit on the cistern and push on the flush buttons when someone was on the toilet. Perhaps we could teach our cat to flush too?

My cat proved to be a dunce. He didn't catch on, and even when I was certain he knew what I wanted him to do, he was just plain stubborn. He'd rather hold on than have to hover over a small hole. We didn't even get to weaning him to a big hole.

Defeated, I let him have his litter box back. He'd already started using the bathtub and sinks as an alternative toilet, and the next stage was bound to be our carpet or bed.

He is very particular about his litter. We use the hideously expensive crystals that neutralise cat urine odour and we must rake it daily and change it every 7-10 days. Number twos are to be removed as soon as practical.

We managed to sell the Litter Kwitter to some hopeful punter for a fraction of the price we paid for it.

The cat litter tray is located in our ensuite, which has a fan. When our now 6 kg cat drops his bombs, we are alerted of the odour from the other end of the house. Someone runs to switch the fan on and shut the door. I don't want to scoop it until it cools down and the fan has sucked away some of the noxious fumes.

A science teacher told me farts are little particles of poos going up our noses - that was for a topic on diffusion of gases & states of matter. So the smell from Rocky's turds are particles of cat poo entering our nostrils.

That's if we're quick enough to beat Bailey, our dog. If we weren't quick enough, Bailey would exit our bedroom with bits of cat litter falling off his teeth. 'Bad dog' we'd scold and toss him outside.

That's the worst thing about dogs - eating poo. Once Bailey ate horse poo, and then threw it up on the carpet. A dog from my childhood ate chicken poo - chewed on them like they were chewing gum.

At least I wouldn't have to scoop the poo if Bailey got there first.

Scooping cat poo was always left to me. I'd hold my breath, grab the scoop and transfer the cigar-shaped turds to the toilet. If Rocky decided to poo in the middle of the night, I had to scoop it while it was hot, steaming and sticky (and would cling to the scoop). Otherwise, our room would be fumigated and we couldn't sleep.

Hubby refuses to scoop Rocky's poos. He found it bad enough scooping dog poo, which would make him puke. I used to have to scoop dog poo until he could handle it. We used to have a dog that munched on apples from the apple tree - the apples would end up in the poo undigested - liked diced apples in fudge.

Same when he graduated to our son's poos. We entertained the idea that maybe I could go back to work and hubby could be a house husband. I was stuck with the pooey nappies. Hubby would be puking out the window if he attempted.

Our boy as a baby would save up 4 days worth and then it would overflow everywhere. We didn't go anywhere on the fourth day until he'd had his explosion and had a bath. Then when we put him on whey formula (which has trace casein), he was chronically constipated (turns out I am allergic to dairy and he gets sick with A1 casein).

Stupid doctor ignored my concerns about allergy and told me to wean him onto spinach and dilute his formula. The spinach blasted out the other end, still green and undigested.

Hubby came inside looking rather ill. Apparently there was a giant turd in the front garden, where the dog doesn't go. He was positive it was from human origins, and it made him throw up.

Reluctantly, I had to go and investigate. I find vomit even more repulsive than faeces. Even though I have a much more keen sense of smell than my husband (which is more a curse than a blessing), I manage to keep my stomach contents intact.

We managed to determine that our son had done the turd in the garden. It was a on the hard side and a bit compacted so couldn't just be hosed down. The previous week he'd been constipated for the first time since he was a baby.  Now, after a clean-out, it looked like it he was going down that track again.  

Guess who got the job of cleaning up the mess?

I grimaced as a scooped the rock-hard turd up with the dog poo shovel and raced inside and dumped it in the toilet. I flushed - more than once, hoping the toilet wouldn't clog and overflow. Then I hosed down the residue, along with the puke, trying not to retch.

Apparently, because he was too scared to use to toilet seat with the narrow rim and big hole when we moved house. Was afraid he would fall in, having a smaller bottom. At least now we knew why he had been constipated since moving into the new house a few weeks prior.  So, the solution was shopping for a kids toilet trainer seat to make the hole smaller.

At first we didn't realise our son was constipated. I only worked it out because I'd read about break-through leakage with constipation on a parenting site.

Our son had been been soiling his pants over the past 4 or so days, and it smelt awful.

It wasn't like the other times he'd soiled his pants from eating too much food containing salicylates (eg fruit high in salicylates) - a sticky, foul-smelling mess, that 'just slipped out, like soap.' Sometimes, if that happened, I'd just throw the underwear away, as too revolting to clean, and I was doubtful the smell would come out, even with baking soda (secret weapon for neutralising odours like vomit).

He hadn't had any dietary factors to cause constipation, so we thought maybe he hadn't been drinking enough water. It was the weekend, and he'd been constipated for more than 4 days, so I rang the pharmacy. They said to come and get a fast-acting enema, and follow with a sugar syrup for a few days to keep things soft. If it didn't work, they said to take him to the hospital, as could be badly impacted.

Trying to give a 7-year-old boy an enema wasn't easy, especially a very stubborn boy with Asperger's Syndrome. Even more stubborn that our cat with Asperger's.

He didn't believe us that it didn't hurt, and it would make things soft and easier to pass. It took the two of us to adminster the enema, so that we could hold him still. He was supposed to lie on his left side until he felt the urge to go, which should have taken less than 5 minutes. We wanted him to stay in the bathroom, in-case it got messy (at least tiles would be easier to clean than carpet).

He refused to stay still and remain in the bathroom. He was screaming at the top of his lungs (and he is the loudest screamer I have ever heard) and called us all the rude names under the sun. Hubby went outside and said to the neighbour, don't worry about calling the police when hearing out son scream - he screams very loud during tantrums. Fortunately, she taught children with special needs, and understood.

Our boy held on for half an hour - screaming and ranting and jiggling around like a spider on hot concrete. He was complaining he was starting to feel nauseaus. No doubt, he urgently needed to go, but held on - it would have been like the nausea of trying to hold back diarrhoea. It wasn't until we phoned the hospital and were making arrangements to bring him in - with towels, wipes and gloves, that he finally disappeared into the toilet, bringing relief to us all.

Then we were off to the park, and he was happy and it was all forgotten.

Now that we are renting a place with flyscreens, we aren't at risk of Tree Frogs playing in our toilet bowl. No guarantee that a snake won't come up the toilet bowl though - haven't had that happen - yet . Part of the fun with living in a subtropical region of Queensland.

I used to work as a lab technician and was interviewed for a job in the lab of a sewage treatment plant. They didn't think I would have the stomach for the work, so took me around the plant and showed me the most revolting things to see if I'd throw up. I didn't (would have been a different matter if I'd been pregnant, and even the smell of oil cooking would make me nauseus).

I got the job, and it certainly was an educational experience. Yes, money really does get flushed down the toilet and ends up at the sewage treatment plant. Frequently the 'boys' would fish $20 and $50 notes out of the rags screens (which collected toilet paper, nappies and false teeth) and the grit skip (full of undigested peas and corn) and shoot down to the bakery to buy afternoon tea.

In the UK, a puppy survived being flushed down the toilet by a child.

Seagulls would hang around looking for morsels to eat, and would fish tampons out of an aerated tank that had partially inflated condoms bobbing on the surface.

One day, we turned the water taps on in the lab and thick dark-brown sludge (aka thickened sh!t) came out. Apparently, someone's idea of rigging the hot water up to the sludge lines from the digesters (that processed sludge from sewage) was a flop, because they didn't use one-way valves. 'Oooooh, I just drank from that water this morning,' said one of the girls.

Better go. I hear the sound of scratching in the litter tray. If I don't move quickly to turn the extraction fan on, the whole house will pong. Plus, I have to beat the dog to it. Later, my cat will sit his bum-hole on my kitchen bench. And I bet the dang things won't flush.

This hub is creative non-fiction and the title was selected from Stan's Fantabulous Contest.

Don't forget to buy a Litter Kwitter (below). Just because it didn't work for my cat doesn't mean it won't work for you (the videos even show cats using it).

There's even self-cleaning litter boxes.

Otherwise, there's good old crystal litter with a scoop and a corner tray. Happy crapping.

In the middle of the night, we heard Rocky thumping and crashing in our bedroom and then the hallway, accompanied by a loud, high 'e-e-e-e-' that we didn't recognise.  We turned on the light to find Rocky chasing a Green Tree Frog.  Must have gotten in when someone left the door ajar earlier in the day.  

Hubby grabbed Rocky (and got a bite of protest on the finger); while I captured the cold, clammy frog and released it outside.  We hadn't heard a frog's distress call before, just the loud 'humpf, humpf, humpf' trumpeting out of people's drainpipes after rain.

We went back to bed and heard another crash - Rocky had tipped his litter tray over in revenge.  He didn't appreciate having his prey confiscated. That cat has spunk.