The Cat Crept In

There was a rum sort of smell in the bedroom.  Now, my dearly beloved has, from time to time, a foot problem. Not to put too fine a point on it, they don’t half niff on occasion. Now, pongy socks are part and parcel of married life, so I’m not complaining (much) but this was getting really rank.  So much so, that lying in bed last Saturday morning, I ventured to broach the subject.

I was met with Stout Denial.  There’s nothing wrong with my feet, said the partner of my joys and sorrows indignantly, going so far as proposing to wave a foot under my nose to prove it.  I declined this gracious offer – even a non-pongy foot is something that I don’t want to dwell on overmuch, especially before breakfast – but it led on to some keen detective work.

Problem:  If it’s not feet that are causing the smell, what is it?

Answer:   I dunno.

I mean, it’s not an academic problem, is it?  It’s not like the Causes of the First World War, the Apostolic Succession or the Theory of Relativity which you can work out by lying in bed.   It needs action.

At this point there was a little tinkling noise and Minou, (cute, furry, small and the latest kitten to grace the Gordon-Smith household) came out from under the bed.  The tinkling noise was made by the bell she wears on her very smart red collar.

She leapt on the bed and started to play running up and down Mount Knee.  (That’s the game where a knee under the duvet turns into Mount St Helens by moving unexpectedly.)  It might be a small triumph, but I can fool a kitten!

And the smell grew worse.

A suspicion started to filter through our minds.  Could the little Tinkler of a kitten be doing er… Little Tinkles under the bed?

“I’ll see you downstairs,” said the other half, hastily deserting wife and livestock on the spot. “The lawn needs cutting.”

The lawn?  It’s December,  for pete’s sake.

Alone, I washed and dressed in a thoughtful sort of way and then – there was nothing else for it – took the mattress off the bed.

Lumps.  Great lumps of – well, you can imagine.  It hadn’t hit the fan, but it had hit Ground Zero under our bed.

Now, these cats are loved.  They are cherished and cared for.  They’re provided with constant attention, fluffy toys, a couple of dogs to be snooty to, regular meals and treats of tuna and chicken.  More to the point, they’re provided with a litter tray, for heaven’s sake, which I clean  it regularly. (I did ask a junior Gordon-Smith to do this; she described it as “minging” and affected to believe I was joking.)

One bulging plastic bag was put in the bin and an hour later I was in the pet shop, describing our little problem.  What I needed, apparently, was something called Repel All.  The smell it says on the back on the bottle, is naturally very unpleasant to animals and they quickly learn to avoid it.

Dear God, you can count me in the animal kingdom!  It was like a gas attack.  I’d just finished spraying the carpet and counting the seconds until I could get out of the room, when Snooker, Most Senior Animal, walked in.  She made for under the bed and then, like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon, reeled back.  Snooker?  Had she… Yes, she damn well had.  And so had Arthur, the third of the wretched creatures.

Still, something attempted, something done.  The bedroom might niff like a swimming-baths but at least it was clean and, although fairly repellent to me, I had the evidence of my own eyes that it was repellent to cats too.

Then the eldest came in.  “Mum,” she said, “there’s an awful smell in my bedroom.  It’s like old socks….”