Toilet seats, and toilet lids. Joel, being male, also didn't understand. Joel, however, got an education, and it wasn't a lecture from me, oh no. It was an exercise in poetic justice, and Fluffy delivered the verdict.

Fluffy is not the world's brightest dog. She's cute and is always incredibly happy just to be alive. These two attributes have saved her innumerable times from being unceremoniously ditched at the pound, as she has many habits which aren't quite as endearing as her cute doggy brown eyes.

Fluffy likes snacking on Shmogg's litterbox deposits. This habit has quickly trained us to clean the litterbox more often, and to leave the laundry (where the litterbox is) closed up if Fluffy is in the house. Sometimes we get distracted, however, and we are greeted with cat-poo breath and licked furiously with the tongue that had just been savouring the taste of recycled Whiskas. Yewwwwww.

However, we are getting better with time (as all new parents do) and haven't been coated with ex-cat-breakfast flavoured Fluffy spit in quite some time. Wonderful. Or so you would think. Fluffy seems to have a thing about excretia.

Anyway, if the liquid variety of the nature trip calls Joel in the middle of the night, Joel not only has the nasty habit of leaving the seat up, but he also often doesn't quite get the flush mechanism quite activated either. Its a funny loo, and the "half flush" doesn't work real well. To give him his dues, he's also blind without his glasses and I don't think anyone thinks particularly clearly at 4am, but it drives me doubly nuts to discover a pre-used lav with the seat up (and his aim isn't always perfect either)

I've tried nagging, I've tried asking politely, I've even dragged him over and *shown* him in a most patronising way that the seat does has technically advanced *hinges* that actually allow the seat to be lowered, and that recent research had developed *buttons* that, if depressed, would bring forth the magic *flushing*. Do I have to tell you that this only got him angry and did precisely nothing in the way of correcting this habit? Doesn't matter anymore, though, because we have a Fluffy.

As I said earlier, Fluffy must have a penchant for unmentionables, either that or she has absolutely *no* tastebuds. It was hot, and Fluffy was looking for a drink. She found one - in the form of that magic ever lasting small pond in the large porcelain "urn" that lives in the smallest room of the house. Upon spying the greedily gulping creature, I think "What the hell, its clean enough".

After Fluffy had satiated her thirst, Fluffy went to top up the dog-spit layer on Joel's face. She's diligent, if not smart, and tries very hard not to let us completely dry out before adding another coating.

I hear from the lounge room "Yarrrgh, get away from me! You *stink*. What the *hell* have you gotten into?"

At about the same time, my bladder has made its presence known, and I take a trip to the WC, only to be faced with the evidence of Joel's err...bad habits.

I explained to Joel, through giggles, *why* Fluffy's breath had smelt like it did. He quickly retreated to the shower before the gagging and retching produced more than a very red face.

Afterwards, I would not be lying to say I pissed myself laughing, but only after flushing and lowering first.

Needless to say, he now *always* flushes and *always* lowers both seat and lid.

To those who co-habitate with a recalcitrant male, Fluffy charges $20 per training session.

Copyright © Vicky Chapman
February 13, 1999