Author: meerkatkit

This weekend, kit decided to help me clean the bathroom. That most unusual occurrence came about due to a change in the wattage of the light-bulbs . Allow me to explain.

Yesterday morning, while I was out, several of the light-bulbs in the bathroom blew. Kit and his Dad went to some trouble  to replace them. In Perth, where we live, there is a bizarre phenomenon that everywhere indoors is very poorly lit (except hair dressers or changing rooms in clothes shops, or any other place where harsh lighting is bound to make you look a fright if you are (a) over forty (b) not suffering from an eating disorder or (c) pretty much anyone at all; let’s face it nobody looks good in that kind of light). 

I believe the old bulbs were a wattage of about negative 10. I actually keep a torch in the bathroom for those days when I don’t mind seeing what I really look like in the mirror (about twice a year). Our only spare bulbs were about three times as strong as the old ones. So, when I unsuspectingly went to the bathroom and turned on the light, I was silently gobsmacked for a beat, and then exclaimed “[that swear word, which is often prefaced by various animals such as bulls or horses]!”

I had been met by a scene of the utmost filthiness. I used to be an archaeologist, and I have excavated cesspits cleaner than that bathroom!

Kit came running and repeated my exclamation, adding, “In the wild meerkats have communal latrine areas, but if one of ours was that bad, we would just move out and go live somewhere else.”

Given that that was not an immediate option for us, we set about cleaning the bathroom. Kit was keen to help, but given his size, I wasn’t sure there was much he could do. Suffice it to say, everyone should have a cheerleader when they are cleaning the bathroom.  He was also a dab hand at cleaning out the tooth mug.

But, the thing he was most proud of was reading me the instructions on the bottles. There is a little understood affliction that affects most people over the age of forty. It is that your arms start to shrink. This change becomes apparent when you go to read something with fine print, and find that you are no longer able to hold it far enough away from your face to actually make out the words. At my age I know the instructions for cleaning products off by heart, but Kit was helping so earnestly, that it would have been mean to tell him that.

Apparently it’s not just the bathroom that looks better. This evening, after I had got dressed to go out, Kit said, “Your makeup looks nice, Mum. You no longer look like a circus clown, or an aging transvestite. And I see you managed to pluck all your chin hairs.”

Yesterday afternoon, I went to fetch my hidden stash of chocolate, only to discover that apparently, I had never been in possession of a hidden stash of chocolate. In hindsight, in the pantry, behind the lentils, would have been a better place to hide my jewellery from burglars than to hide chocolate.

I confronted the likely culprits. Raised voices and vehement denials ensued, as Kit concocted an imaginative tale about stoned midnight burglars with the munchies, who tidied up after themselves. When I pointed out how likely a story that was because the doors were all locked, he finally confessed.

He then petulantly asked why I didn’t just shut up and help myself to some of his roasted termite patties?

“Because I once saw a dog pass something more appetizing than those!” I spluttered, enraged.

“Well, you made them!” He said accusingly.

“I made them for you for a treat!” I objected.

“I know, and I appreciate the effort, but those patties are bloody awful. They’re like wild animal food, and I’m a tame animal. I was hoping you would eat them so I didn’t have to,” he admitted.

“Fine. We agree on something,” I conceded, “Let’s go feed them to a wild animal. But you can’t go replacing them in your diet with chocolate. I’ll make you something else healthy. How long did it take you to eat all that, anyway? You must have been at it for weeks.”

“Oh, no. It only took a few days,” he said, as His Dad quickly slipped silently out of the room, “I was just helping Dad.”

So Kit and I took an expedition to see if we could find a wild animal to eat the termite patties. His Dad would keep!

The magpies weren’t interested. Nor were the mudlarks. The kookaburras just laughed at us. Finally, we offered them to a passing dog, who to tried to bury them. It was not clear whether he wanted to bury food to hide, and come back to it later, or he just believed that excrement should be buried.  

“I know!” Kit exclaimed, desperate to be rid of the offensive patties, but very aware that I would not let them go to waste, “Why don’t we take them home and feed them to Dad. We could chocolate coat them so he eats them by mistake, as a sort of punishment for eating your chocolate.”

“Well, you ate some of the chocolate, too,” I reminded him, “What’s your punishment?”

“How do you think I know how terrible the patties are?” he asked, “I already ate one; I’ve been punished enough!”

This afternoon, I walked into the kitchen to find Kit unconscious on the floor. He hasn’t had daytime naps since he was little, so this was most unusual for him. I called his name, and he didn’t respond.  I tried again. Nothing. When he didn’t even respond to being called ‘Kitten’, (he usually bites me), I panicked.

“Eew! Get off, Mum!” he spluttered as I began CPR.

“Thank god you’re okay!” I gasped, hugging him.

“I’d be even more okay if you stopped molesting me,” he grumbled.

“Sorry! I was starting CPR. I thought you were unconscious,” I explained, picking fur out of my teeth.

“There’s nothing wrong me,” he said pointedly, “I was asleep. According to the Spanish, an afternoon siesta in the summer is perfectly acceptable, even for adults. I may be too old for naps, now that I’m four, but I still get a bit tired in the afternoon,” he confessed, “I think a siesta is a good solution for being too grown up for naps, don’t you?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” I agreed, privately thinking that it’s more like a synonym (but I wasn’t going to go down that path and ruin a perfectly good solution to Kit being under my feet). “So what were you doing that left you so worn out?” I asked, and my eye was drawn in the direction of his outstretched paw.

Spilling from his bedroom door was a tsunami of shredded toilet paper, cardboard and packaging material.

“You’re always banging on about reduce-reuse-recycle, so I thought I would reuse some stuff,” Kit explained.

“Yes, true,” I conceded, “Me and my big mouth.”

Kit peered closely at me, “I never noticed that before, but now that you mention it, you do have an enormous mouth!”

“So,” I said, “I give up. What is it? Art? Insulation?”

“It’s not art, and I don’t know what an insultation is but it doesn’t sound very nice,” he answered, explaining, “My meerkat instincts are coming out and I wanted to dig a burrow.”

“And how was shredding all my packaging materials supposed to achieve that?” I asked.

“I never said it worked,” he said sulkily, “Every time I try to dig, it just falls everywhere.”

“If you want to dig, we can get you a sand pit,” I offered, “But I’m not sure we can get the kind of dirt to dig a burrow. I’m sure we can build you a burrow, though, if you would prefer to sleep in one than a bed.”

Kit looked mildly horrified. “I want to sleep in my bed, in the burrow,” he requested, “I’m not a wild animal!”

“All right then. Let’s clean up this mess, and plan how to renovate you a burrow!” I said enthusiastically.

An hour later, I was feeling a bit less enthusiastic. In fact, I could have done with a siesta. I turned around to find Kit asleep in a pile of rubbish.

Recently, I took Kit to visit the zoo. He was so young the last time we went that he didn’t remember much. This resulted in him asking a lot of questions.

“Do ducks use snorkels? Can a tortoise ever be homeless? Do fish climb trees? And, my favourite, “How old were you when you got your tail docked?”

“I can’t answer that question,” I replied, explaining, “I never had a tail.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said in a stage whisper, “Are you some kind of mutant?”

“No, dear,” I answered, sighing, “I mean humans don’t grow tails.”

“Shut up!” he exclaimed, looking shocked, “All the other mammals here have tails. Except the orangutans. I read about humans docking dogs’ tails, so I thought you must have all been docked as well.”

“Well, orangutans are apes, like us,” I explained, “And apes don’t have tails, like monkeys do. But some humans object to being called apes, so we use the word ‘hominoid.’”

“But apes are awesome!” Kit exclaimed, “They are so strong they can bend iron bars. And they can swing around in the trees and do acrobatics, like a ninja superhero. Who wouldn’t want to do that?!”

“And can you explain about that?” he said, pointing at a zebra.

“You mean its stripes?” I asked, honing in on its most obvious feature.”

“No, I mean its mane,” Kit corrected, explaining, “How come zebras and lions and horses all have ‘manes’, and humans have ‘hair’?”

“That’s a really good question,” I replied, adjusting his position on my shoulder.

“And what’s a really good answer?” he asked cheekily, adjusting himself back.

“I don’t know,” I mused, adding, “Well, there is a long history of certain types of humans wanting to distinguish themselves from other animals.”

Kit swiftly extinguished that idea by pointing out, “Yeah, but dogs have ‘hair,’”

“Well I suppose that’s not the explanation then,” I conceded. “But I did once meet a woman who declared, ‘I didn’t evolve from an ape!’”

“You’d have to be pretty special to think that!” Kit said, “It doesn’t sound like she had evolved much at all.”

“But, there is, unfortunately, a long history of a certain type of human thinking that our species is more evolved, and better than all the other species on earth,” I confessed.

“Well, that’s ridiculous!” Kit said dismissively, “You don’t even have tails! All the best animals have tails.”

“When you were little,” Kit began, “In the Olden Days. Were there dinosaurs?”

“Excuse me!” I replied, “They were extinct 65 million years before I was born.”

“But weren’t there loads of animals that are extinct now?” he asked.

“Yes, probably,” I conceded, “But not dinosaurs.”

“What about Megafauna?” he quizzed, “They must have been around. Didn’t you have to sleep in really tall trees to protect yourselves?”

“Um…no. The megafauna were also before me. We slept in beds. In houses. But it was before fitted sheets had been invented,” I added, “So things were a bit more difficult. What with hospital corners, and everything, we didn’t have all the free time that people do now days,” I love messing with him.

“But we worked out that you’re old enough to be my great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandmother in meerkat years, so you’re actually really old.”

“If only great respect came with great age,” I quipped.

“I respect you heaps, Mum!” he quickly piped up.

“Thank you, Kit.”

“Except when you tell me off.”

“…or make me tidy up, or go to bed.”

“…or make me change my socks. It’s hard to respect someone who makes you change your socks.”

“You don’t even wear socks,” I objected.

“Yes, but if I did, I know you would make me change them,” he explained.

“You are extrapolating inappropriately,” I complained.

“I am not!” he exclaimed, “I never extra anything unless you make me.”

“Anyway,” he went on, concerned, “Is there anything we can do to stop all the extinction?”

“There’s always something we can do,” I answered, “When I was a little girl, in Wellington in the 1980s, many native species of birds were so endangered that I had never even seen one. Back then, the New Zealand government set up conservation programs. In the last few years, I’ve seen birds like tui, kereru and kea, not just in sanctuaries, but in people’s back yards. Once, when I was out hiking, I even saw a blue duck.”

“Did you really, Mum?” Kit was excited, “Aren’t they the famous ones on our ten dollar note?”

“Yes they are! And I even got a photo.”

“Wow!” Kit exclaimed, “That’s even better than getting a photo of Edmund Hillary; he’s only on the five dollar note!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that this was even more unlikely because Edmund Hillary has been unavailable for photo opportunities since 2008, due being deceased.

“Take my photo with the ten dollar note,” he begged, so I did.

“From now on,” he joked, “I’m not going to call it ten bucks. I’m going to say ten ducks.”

“You’ll make a great Dad some day!” I told him.