A bit like Julian Assange.

I’m on a roll! 4 posts in 4 days. Take a load of that Catherine Cookson (if you’re still alive).

Yesterday I thought it would be improper not to offer some balanced, fair comments about some of the people that the BBC have a lot of time and money for. Blowhole types like Jeremy Vine and Vanessa Feltz. Today I’d like to continue on a similar theme by telling you all about our kitten’s leaking anus. ‘The kitten’ or MHMM (as she shall be referred to from now on) is a thing of great joy and brings an extra dimension of cuddliness to the cosy love nest that ‘the wife’ and I proudly call home.

There a few greater pleasures than having little MHMM pad across your belly and up onto your shoulder, where she will nudge you lovingly and at that moment there is no greater love in the world than the love between man and kitten. Sadly all that love comes to a juddering halt when she spins about and treats you to a face full of arsehole. An arsehole is just an arsehole, you may think, but a close up of a leaking anus is not something I would recommend to anyone. Incidentally if you feel a bit queasy reading the words ‘leaking anus’ over and over again you might want to think of it as a dripping sphincter instead. Better?

So MHMM has been leaking for a couple of weeks now. Her bumhole is like a broken tap. I can’t narrow it down to hard statistics but I can say that ‘the wife’ and I pick her up with great caution these days in case a gentle squeeze produces a tube of toothpaste effect at her rear end. We spend a substantial amount of time cleaning up little spots of poo off the floor and some days her litter tray borders on the verge of being a war crime. Indeed she gets through so much litter at the moment that I have to take one in every 3 pooey bags up the road and surreptitiously put them in the council bin, like a spy dropping off a particularly unwelcome package of classified documents. That smells of cat faeces. If I didn’t our wheelie bin would be overflowing akin to a stinky version of the magic porridge pot.

Anyway we have done the right thing and taken her to the vet who massaged her flanks and nonchalantly confirmed that she was indeed ‘full of diarrhoea’. He then sold us some hideously overpriced cat food, gave her a syringe full of antibiotics and told us to call him in a few days to report back. ‘The wife’ is calling him today and the news will be this: the jab seems to have given MHMM a new lease of life which means she’s gone back to full on mental mode for most of the day. The anal leaking has continued but it’s darker and thicker, which I can only assume means it’s the stuff that’s been fermenting in her bowels – a kind of ‘master brewers vintage, special reserve diarrhoea’, if you like.

Whether this is the beginning of the end of MHMM’s leaking anus issues only time will tell and if I’m lucky my top-of-the-range sister (who is the Dr Doolittle of the fluffy domestic animal world) might offer her opinion once she’s read this. ‘The wife’ and I must now continue to live with a crazy kitten and her crazy love and her crazy claws and her crazy rectum, but I suppose it could be worse. We shower her with even more idle threats involving holes in the ground or glue factories but we both know they’ll come to nothing. After all in 30 years time we’ll probably both have leaking anuses too.

I was going to blend this reflection on arseholes with a critical analysis of Liam Gallagher’s ubiquitous new song ‘Wall of Glass’ but I’ve run out of time so I’ll save that for the next post. I think today’s may be my 100th post. Fitting that I’ve spent it talking shit.

G B Hewitt. 21.07.2017

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