Dirty protest

We cut Pickle’s claws for her this morning. “She’s surprisingly good about it,” we said. We gave her some treats. She seemed calm. Last time, she hid and stared balefully with vast, cool and unsympathetic eyes. Little did we know that slowly but surely she drew her plans against us.

It wasn’t my bed. Dear God it could’ve been. It could’ve been my bed. But no. Brian made the cuts. Brian receives the punishment.

An hour has passed since we first found it. I’m in the tube, and I can still smell it. Thicker than marmite, the smell of her dirty protest. This was a smell with a name, and its name was Tartarus. We shouldn’t have clipped the nails. WE SHOULDN’T HAVE CLIPPED THE NAILS!

There it was, lying on the bed. Perfectly central. Soft and wet. Settling gently into the fluff, sending it’s airborne horror far and wide. Pigeons died outside the window. Across the river a bloodhound vomited. Mutant fish bobbed lifeless in a line across the Thames from the bedroom window. A long way from here, the man from Delmonte said no to a perfectly good crop of oranges.

Retching, scarf over nose, I gathered it up in loo roll. It was reluctant to do my bidding, this soft cat shit. It rolled and broke and stuck. It tried to attach to my clothes, to jump in my face. It did not go softly. It raged. At one point it growled at me. All the while a small cat looked on passively. “Nothing to do with me. Love me.”

It’s gone now. Or I think it’s gone oh God I think it’s gone. Mel and I are on the tube into work. But we can still smell it. It’s like we’re still back there. YOU WEREN’T THERE! Mel and I have just checked each other’s clothes. It’s like we missed a little bit of the sinister shitworm and it’s hiding in our wake, reforming as we head for Carol. When the meal comes out in the matinee, there it’ll be, bigger than ever, plumb in the middle of the table, laughing maniacally as the audience dissolves.


Well. There were no turds on the table. Just food – believe it or not. Now, post show, six of us are all loaded into a crammed uber XL, with shitloads of clothes, bits of a fuel tank and shielding for a Benelli Tornado, and a load of old “fairings” for the same bike. It’s just as well that Mel and wee Bobby are small. The driver didn’t think there was any way of getting us all in. But we are. We are going back to the flat where today, almost as if it knew that I had finally saved enough to power flush the system and get the central heating back on, the hot water has packed up too. The boiler is fully dead. Now we have no hot water AND no heating. FML. I think – I hope – that Pickle has got her rage at the claw-cutting out of her system. If I get home filthy to a cold flat where I can’t wash and something like this morning’s toxic shitworm is lying on my pillow… I’ll just go sleep on the riverbank. I’m so fed up of being cold…

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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