John Walker's Electronic House

Obviously after his operation, Dexter hasn’t been alllowed outside. This has caused rather a lot of consternation, and some very stroppy episodes, not least over his mad determination to only poo and wee outside. Despite having a litter tray, Dex has decided that it’s far too undignified, and he’d rather hold it all in all night and race out in the morning, than just pee in the tray when he wants to. Dumbass. This led to quite a battle of wills after two days with no access to the outdoors, the desperate complaining becoming more frenzied as he realised that holding it in was no longer going to be an option. Finally, he conceeded, and has been using the litter tray for the first time in months.

This hasn’t done anything to dampen the whining to get out. Now pretty much back to full health, and therefore able to jump up to anything that might aid his escape bids, the fresh wound on his belly is of no concern to him. Moreso to us. Monday was apparently the last straw for Dexter. Somehow, by Monday morning he was gone. All means of reasonable escape were shut or locked, leading to much confusion. Windows we didn’t possibly think he could use were the only available means. When he came back in mid-morning, I shut the front door, and then he went mad with the ludicrous imprisonment. The contents of the kitchen windowsill were pushed into the sink, the downstairs toilet was viciously attacked, toothbrushes and razors scattered across the floor, my shaving foam chucked down the loo. Catching him in this act led to confrontation and shouting, and his eventual sulking on a high shelf in the conservatory, where he, defeated, slept.

Last night, while I was out, apparently a repeat of the escape bids was had, with half an hour spent clawing at the kitchen window, attempting to tunnel through glass. This action suggested that his movements might not be quite as brilliantly executed as we had first thought. How can one so thick manage to complete these daring escapes? But despite this, this morning the same impossible escape has been executed.

This time it’s more mysterious. A potential route out the downstairs toilet window was left yesterday. This morning, no such easy avenues were unblocked. The conservatory was closed off completely, the downstairs windows all shut, the only open window in the house in Jonty’s study, but the door was closed. I remember playing with him in the kitchen at 2am, then going to bed. And by the morning, no sign of him. And still no sign by now.

Looking around outside, terrified that the idiot might have got out of an upstairs window and fallen to his grisly death, I noticed that the plastic bin was filled with a foot of water. (Please know now that this isn’t going anywhere hideous). Inside was a white floating orb with strange swirly patterns coming from the side of it. Like a giant poached egg. I emptied the water out into the hedge, which has apparently become impervious to liquid, repelling it all straight back onto the patio. Included in its contents (look away now, squeamish weaklings) was a decomposing squirrel. The white orb being the astonishing bulbous rotting results of its decomposition on its side. Smell: rather bad. But before I saw it was a squirrel, all I saw around the side of the bin was the end of the tail. And for one terrifying split second, I did wonder.

The squirrel is now buried to conceal the smell in the best way possible, but the water, and its millions of tiny squirming companions, still lie on the patio, my attempts to wash them away with buckets of water mocked by our newly resilient hedge. I’d suggest they’d dry up in the July sun, but, well, maybe they’ll get washed away in the July monsoons.

So no sign of Dexter, one disgustingly dead squirrel, and millions of mammal-eating beasties. What a great start to the day.