Mr Nobody haunted my childhood. Mr nobody did all sorts of naughty things. Mr Nobody spilt the cordial (Kool-Aid for Americans). Mr Nobody ate the last bit of cake. Mr Nobody dinged up my bike. Mr Nobody pulled my sister's hair and called her names. It had to be Mr Nobody, because I certainly wouldn't have done something like that, at least that's what I told my mother. My sister was also haunted by Mr Nobody who did approximately the same things to her. My Mother, on hearing the firm denials from both of us over who put toothpaste all over the bathroom sink, declared "Well, it must have been Mr Nobody then", leaving us kids to think we'd got away with it. Us kids caught on quickly and figured out it was much better to reply to the question of "who left their socks here?" with "it was Mr Nobody" than just to flat-out deny it was us.

Mothers all over the world, of course, are quite cluey. After the amusement of hearing my sister or I naming the mischievous Mr Nobody for the first few times, she figured out a very smart way of stopping us lying through our teeth. The next time Mr Nobody left paint in the drinking glass, she pulled my sister and I out of our playtime.

"You didn't leave this here, did you?" she asked, while my sister shook her head.
"And Victoria, do you know who did this?" to which I claimed ignorance.
"And both of you, had you done it, would have cleaned it up right away?". Both my sister and I agreed enthusiastically.
"Hmm", said Mum, "Must have been Mr Nobody again. You two girls obviously know better". Our cunning plan had worked. The fall-guy had saved us yet again!
"So we'll just stand right here and wait until Mr Nobody cleans it up." She grabbed our hands, so we couldn't beat a hasty retreat even if we wanted to. "Now don't say anything and don't move and inch, unless you scare Mr Nobody away"

Of course Mr Nobody never turned up, and the act of staying still and not talking for more than three seconds was torture. Without anything more than eye-contact, both my sister and I simultaneously claimed responsibility for said glass and cleaned it. Mr Nobody was never mentioned again. I grew up learning not to lie to save my skin, taking responsibility for my actions, and that occasionally its better to take responsibility for other's mistakes than to let it sit and stew forever.

Move forward twenty-odd years. There are only 3 permanent occupants in my home; Joel, Shmoggleberry and myself. Although not ever mentioned by name, someone much like Mr Nobody has come to live as well, and he's friends with the cat. Shmoggleberry can't speak English, but its quite clear from the expression on his face that if he could, Mr Nobody would also be held responsible for the toilet paper being undone in the dead of night, or the placing the sausage that was, until a minute ago, on my plate, into Shmoggleberry's mouth. Although my Mother's technique was a brilliant example of psychology, I know that it won't work on the cat. Besides which, I'm completely under the cat's spell and let him get away with almost anything. What can I do anyway? Will the cat roll the toilet paper back on, cook me another sausage or clean up his dusty footprints? Is there any point trying to punish a cat for just being cat like? The cat gets away with virtually murder on account of his incredible kitty charisma.

Joel is not stupid. Joel also realises that rolling on his back and waving his stomach at me does not make me forgive him like it does the cat. Joel has gotten far more sneaky.

"Who left the toilet seat up again?", I complain to the only human male that has been in the house for a week. "It was the cat". The cat, for what its worth, looks at me, all innocent-like "Who left this mess in the sink?", I say, knowing it was just fine when I left for work. "The cat did it" "Why hasn't the laundry been put out?" "The cat was supposed to."

Now to give him his dues, Joel is pretty good about most things, and the grievances I have with the alleged cat are not really worth worrying over. However, blaming the cat for some things just goes to far.

The lounge suite is new, and putting it bluntly, is was bloody expensive. Due to the shape of the lounge room, the backs of the chairs are exposed to a natural walkway, the walkway between kitchen and family room, the walkway where innumerable full cups of coffee and other food stuffs are carried past, the place where mainly stain-inducing items are run past the gauntlet of the hallway troll. I am *exceptionally* careful not to spill *anything* on the lounge. Even the carpet is easier to clean and stains less.

"Who put these stains on the back of the lounge?"
"It was the cat."
"I'm not joking, Joel. Why didn't you clean it up straight away?"
"It was the cat."
"Joel!"
"it was the *cat*. I didn't do it".
"Stop lying! For gawsakes, it cost a fortune and you are too lazy to wipe something up before it dries".
"Listen to me! It. was. The. CAT!!!!!"

What do you do? I couldn't get him to admit to it, but I knew damn well it was him. Who else could have done it. Yes, Shmoggleberry sleeps up there occasionally, but how does a cat stain expensive velour? I refused to talk to Joel until he admitted he was at fault.

Two hours later, I had to very sheepishly admit to Joel that he was right. At least cat drool cleans off fairly easily.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
June 16, 1999