Noxious

Everyone has their fears. We all have our crosses to bear. Heights. Spiders, whatever. My friend Davis has a phobia that while on the surface might seem rather harmless, will prove on closer inspection to be quite debilitating.

On a sunny summer day in Lower Town Ottawa, Davis has just arrived at his girlfriend Stephanie’s apartment after a night of heavy drinking. It’s almost high noon, and the familiar lower colon rumblings signal the onset of the dreaded Molson mud-slide. These kinds of intestinal events are no stranger to Davis, no more so than they would be to any recreational drinker. The more booze you consume, the more your butt talks the following day. Because it is past noon the morning after, there is indeed, a big brown bear-a- knocking.

And herein lies our problem; in as much as everyone recognizes that the human body expels certain noxious fumes, Davis has always gone to incredible lengths to conceal this basic truth. Now I know what you’re thinking…how could anyone consistently avoid sharing bodily odours all their lives? As will soon become apparent, Davis has really pushed the boundaries of this unique phobia..

Conversations abandoned in mid-sentence. ..

Dinner parties exited via bathroom windows…

Deliberate manoeuvring within social events to position oneself amongst those who could be blamed for the expelled odours…

Fecal expulsion in complete strangers garages (this particular event really does merit further explanation under separate cover).

But let’s get back to our dilemma in Lower Town.

Brunch that morning at a local bistro was punctuated with the obligatory nods and congenial conversation. Basic grunts are really all you can ask of a man in this predicament. Davis had indeed been thinking ahead to how exactly he was going to relieve himself, and had already examined the public washroom option…but it didn’t go well.

Being just a small breakfast nook it had only the very basic in bathroom amenities; one sink and one singular stall with the obligatory privacy doors. The problem was that the crapper was clogged. I am not speaking of a little clog here, or the type of clog that only becomes apparent after you take the dump. This crapper had a good six inches of shit in it, with little or no water for cover.

As soon as he opened that stall door, belt buckle already loosened, he spied that huge brown Dairy-Queen swirl, waiting patiently to say hi. When the fumes hit his nose, he added a smattering of vomit to the brown pile.

Not a drop hit the floor, and $7.62 of perfectly prepared eggs benedict was back for an exciting second viewing. Nope, this shit was just gonna have to wait.

The visual and olfactory trauma of the bistro’s commode, easily forced the shit back two - maybe three inches into his lower rectum. But he knew this was only temporary relief. He was going to have to come up with a plan real soon. There was an escape hatch, one he had used in the past. It wasn’t subtle, and it did present other problems, but he wasn’t ruling the option out just yet.

Once, months earlier, on their way home after a night of merriment, Davis was convinced he was going to soil his shorts in Steph’s car. Now, it’s one thing to think you’re going to foul the air, quite another thing entirely to ruin automobile upholstery. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

With at least 30 ounces of rum in his gut,  it was time to blurt out something that would shock. Given the alcohol consumption, the outrageousness of it all could later be attributed to the booze, but he still needed something real effective. He needed to say something that would have him thrown out of the vehicle...and fast.

 “Steph, I think we need to take a break.”

That was all it took. Stephanie had a way of having her automobile become an extension of her outrage. Either screeching tires coming to an abrupt halt, or flying gravel as she left the scene, you could always count on the smell of burning rubber when Stephanie was pissed. That night was no exception, and Davis was unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road. As soon as the taillights faded, he skedaddled into the bulrushes to relieve himself. Not a moment too soon actually.

Back again to the current dilemma in Lower Town…

There was only one small bathroom off of the kitchen at Steph’s little aprtment, and he knew that the fan didn’t work and the window was painted shut. She had spent the previous night at Davis’s so he was sure there would be a shower in her immediate future. If Davis had a hang-up about personal odours, Steph was obsessed with her hair. It wasn’t too unusual to clock in four or five complete wash ‘n’ rinse  Aussie-conditioner sessions in one day.

Once the water was running, Davis set his steel-trap mind to work. He could simply leave and make up an excuse later, but he was looking forward to some afternoon sex. If he left now, there’d be little hope of making up with Steph in time for the evening social activities, let alone the afternoon session. The thought of arguing all day just to get laid was making him tired. The only thing he hated more than fighting was shitting his pants, or of coarse having anyone smell his bowel movements.

Enter Boots, stage left.

Boots was Stephanie’s black and white female 12-year-old cat. Who had a history of some pretty nasty shits of her own. She was also Davis’s ticket to rectum relief.

The cat-box was one floor down, with the gritty-kitty sand right next to it. He had only five, maybe ten minutes to pull this off, but it was definitely doable.

The Gritty-Kitty litter really held its own in the super-absorbent clumping-power department, however where the product really fell down, was in its fresh-scent odour fighting abilities. I suppose it would be really unfair to blame the good folks at Proctor & Gamble, because there really was no way the product development team could have possibly foreseen this type of litter abuse. And this manoeuvre is definitely categorized as abuse.

The entire bowel movement took no longer than 45 seconds, but it seems longer when you’re squatting over a 1X2 foot plastic pan, clutching a windowsill for balance and holding your breath. Davis was completely naked from the waist down, which most certainly made things easier, but even with this well thought out approach, it was a bit of a calisthenics routine.

The most unsettling part of the exercise however (as if taking a dump in your girlfriend’s cat litter-box wasn’t enough) was the fact that Boots watched the whole exercise. And the look on that cat’s face was not curious amusement - but outrage. I suppose if someone with an anus ten times the size of yours walked into your house, got naked and took dump in your bathroom, you’d have issue with it too.

Once Davis’s pants were back up, it was simply a matter of pouring some extra gritty kitty over the damage. As his hand reached for the bag, he knew in his heart that the unthinkable was true: she was out of litter. Well, it wasn’t completely empty, but it might has well have been.

Like an expert baker, carefully sprinkling icing-sugar on a cake, Davis did his best to work the small amount of dry litter into the rivers of mud. He spotted Steph’s purse on the coffee table, grabbed her pink travel toothbrush from the sea of lipstick and eyeliner pens, and stirred it up with the handle as best he could. When he was satisfied the illusion was complete, he pushed the toothbrush deep down into its watery grave. After a quick wash-up and a dry heave or two, it was time to head back upstairs.

As soon as Mel came out of the bathroom, Davis muttered:

“Take your cat to a hospital Mel, geez her shits fucking reek.”

“Bad Kitty-Boots!

Bad Kitty!!” agreed Stephanie.